Their Space

The kettle was taking too long

so I looked around.

I'd been here a hundred times

and never noticed

how they'd chosen everything,

how specific it all was,

how much intention lived

in what seemed casual.

The bowls on the second shelf—

none of them matched,

but not in a careless way.

In a way that said

I picked this one,

and this one,

and they're supposed

to be different.

The plant on the sill,

half-brown,

half-fighting back,

the kind of thing

you keep alive

not because it thrives

but because you refuse

to let it die.

And the note on the fridge—

their handwriting,

something they wrote

to themselves

or to whoever was listening,

a reminder,

a joke,

something that mattered

enough to stick

in permanent marker

to a door that opens

and closes a hundred times

a day.

I saw them for the first time

that day,

saw the choices,

saw the person

I'd been sitting across from

in their own made space,

and I realized

I'd been missing it,

the way they live,

the small decisions

that add up

to the shape

of who they are.