You were supposed to arrive by now.
I cleaned my life for you.
I cleared the clutter the way people do before company comes—stacked the old grief neatly in corners, wiped fingerprints off my past, hid the messiest versions of myself in a room I promised not to open. I made space. I made excuses. I made lists of things I’d finally become once you showed up.
I left the porch light on. Every night.
Even when the moths started mistaking it for hope.
I stopped starting things, just in case you needed me empty-handed. I kept my calendar loose, my heart half-packed, my expectations folded like spare sheets. I told myself any day now so often it began to sound like a prayer. Or a threat.
You should know—I practiced what I’d say to you. Casual, like I hadn’t been waiting. Like I hadn’t reorganized my future around the sound of your footsteps. Like I didn’t flinch at every notification, every car passing too slowly, every almost-sign.
The worst part isn’t that you didn’t come.
It’s that I postponed myself in your honor.
I delayed joy because it felt premature. I muted my own voice so I could hear yours when it arrived. I kept my life in a kind of polite suspense, as if movement might scare you off.
But here’s the thing I’m only just admitting, even as I write it down: The house doesn’t feel empty anymore.
It feels… paused. Like it’s waiting for me to decide whether I’m a guest or the owner. The light is still on, yes—but now I see it wasn’t for you alone. It was proof I was still awake. Still here. Still capable of opening the door.
If you come later, you’ll find me living in the rooms again.
If you never come, I will stop mistaking readiness for absence.
I cleaned my life for you.
Now I’m learning how to live in it without apologizing for the dust.