The Journal on the Nightstand

The bedroom was supposed to be simple.

Bag the clothes. That was the job.

But the nightstand had a glass of water

still half-full, dust at the rim,

and beside it the journal open to an entry

dated last month, the handwriting still steady,

the pen cap on the nightstand

like she'd just set it down

and never came back.

I wasn't supposed to read it.

The task was clothes only.

But the page was there.

The handwriting was still hers.

I read it.

I shouldn't have.

I did anyway.

And now I know something

she didn't mean to leave,

something that became mine

because I opened the journal

instead of just taking the clothes.

The water is still there.

I haven't touched it.