The air was different—
not colder, not warmer, just aware.
As if the house itself had leaned in to listen.
As if the walls had learned to hold silence the way they once held laughter.
A suitcase waited by the door,
half-zipped, half-spoken.
No one touched it. No one said its name.
But its shadow stretched long across the floor.
In the room of star-lights and soft breathing,
two figures sat close—
one still, the other holding stillness like a fragile thing.
"How far is it?"
"Far enough to miss. Not far enough to unlove."
Outside, the sky had begun its slow unraveling—
lavender to indigo, indigo to hush.
The first star blinked awake.
A pinky promise was made.
Not with words, but with a look.
Not with time, but with sky.
And later, when nine o'clock bloomed in silence,
two gazes lifted from two windows,
miles apart, hearts aligned.
The moon found them both.
The sky, obedient, remembered.
And the distance forgot how to be distance.