The Last Time You Called Me Home

You said my name differently

the last time—

soft, distant,

as if you were practicing

how it would sound without love.

The room didn’t know yet.

The air still carried

the scent of our laughter,

and the walls

still remembered our warmth.

But I did.

I felt the shift,

that quiet trembling

between what we were

and what we’d already lost.

You smiled like you meant it,

but your eyes were elsewhere—

somewhere safer,

somewhere I couldn’t follow.

I tried to speak,

but the words stuck

like unopened letters,

heavy with everything

we didn’t dare say aloud.

When the door closed,

it wasn’t loud.

It was a sigh—

the kind you let out

after holding on too long.

Now, sometimes,

when the night feels too still,

I swear I can hear

your voice calling me home—

and for a moment,

I almost answer.