cal’s room

sea salt. soft coughs. folded linens and something like longing.

“you looked half-moon when you smiled. always did.”

lace curtains drift even when the window’s shut. the ocean sound is faint but constant.
someone’s sweater is still on the hook. the bed is still made. there’s warmth in the tea mug, still steaming.

cal’s presence is quiet. kind. soft enough to miss — but if you stay long enough, you’ll feel it.

a voice from the hallway says “don’t forget your scarf.”

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