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cowpokeomens · 19 hours ago

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I’m cryin in da club. I will pay you $3 and a handful of cornflakes for part 2. Also a pint of my blood. And an organ. Thanks!

BURNING OUT.

Summary: During the first week of December, a postcard arrives—no name, no return address, just a drunken confession from a stranger who appears to be as lost and lonely as you are this holiday season. Pairing: Noah Sebastian x F!Reader CW: grief, mental health issues (mainly depression), alcohol consumption, open ending Word Count: 11.4k

The postcard arrives on a Tuesday.

You almost miss it at first, tucked between bills you don't want to open and catalogs addressed to someone who no longer lives there—because no matter how many times you informed the magazine that their client’s address has changed, they keep sending the goddamn catalogs every month.

It's only when you're ready to place the pile upon the kitchen counter, intending to just leave the papers there to cluster the space until you eventually muster the energy to toss it all out—as you've been doing with pretty much everything else lately—does the cheap cardstock fall loose and land face up on the floor.

The words are scrawled in messy, uneven handwriting:

“Hey,

I used to live in your house. I’m drunk in Virginia, and it’s the only address I know.

Happy Holidays.”

You read it once.

Twice.

Then again.

There’s no name. No return address. Just a half-hearted message from a drunk stranger who probably won’t even remember sending it.

You should just throw it away.

You should roll your eyes, crumple it up, and move on. But you don't.

Instead, you stand there at the counter, holding it between your fingers, staring at the ink until the letters blur.

Outside, the streets are alive with Christmas lights and half-melted snow, with couples walking around wrapped in scarves and mittens, and with families cramming into local restaurants for holiday dinners.

The world is vivid and bright, covered in a soft winter glow. But not for you.

For you, the season is nothing but cold. Empty. A reminder of all the things you've lost this year.

You used to love this time of year—both of you did. The decorations, the ugly sweaters, the way laughter filled the air like a song you could hum along to.

But now? Now it’s just another month to survive. Another string of days where you pretend the silence in the house doesn’t feel heavier with each passing hour.

The postcard lingers in your hands much longer than it should.

Because someone out there—some stranger with messy handwriting and a bad habit of sending drunk mail, of all things—felt lonely enough, lost enough, to reach out to a place they don’t belong to anymore, like it was all they had.

And you understand.

God, you understand.

So, instead of tossing it straight in the trash and forgetting all about it, you set it down on the counter, smoothing your thumb over the words one last time before turning around to walk straight back to bed.

You haven't got a clue who the person behind the postcard is. But right now, for some unknown reason, you really wish you did.

You don't leave the house for the rest of the week.

Haven't, really, in days. Not unless you absolutely need to.

You're used to the routine by now: waking up too late, then staring at the ceiling for too long, and forcing yourself out of bed only when you can't stand the thoughts any longer.

Once up, you go down to the kitchen and make coffee that goes cold before you remember to sip it, and you eat standing over the sink, not tasting the food.

It’s been like this for a while.

Today, somewhere, someone is laughing—one of those deep, belly-aching laughs that used to live here too, filling this same house, rattling the walls.

Not anymore. Now, the space is quiet. Still.

Grief is a terrible monster. It doesn’t come the way people say it will. It’s not a sudden, crashing wave that devastates you all at once.

No, grief something quieter. Slower.

Grief is a parasite that settles into your bones, feeding on your memories until they're tarnished and rotten, growing stronger by the day, pressing its weight against your chest until it gets hard to breathe and your limbs feel too heavy to move.

It clings. It whispers. It does not leave.

And the worst part? It makes you still. Frozen. Like you’re the one who’s died, while the rest of the world keeps moving.

You think about that sometimes—how the world doesn’t stop for mourning. How people still go to work, still go to school, still go on dates, still adorn their houses with Halloween and Christmas decorations as if nothing had ever happened.

You think about how someone could have walked past him that day, just another stranger on the sidewalk, not knowing it was the last time he’d ever be anywhere.

It doesn’t seem right.

Neither does the silence left behind.

You used to hate how loud he was sometimes—how he filled rooms like he owned them, always going on about something, drumming on countertops, humming, tapping his fingers against door frames.

Sometimes you thought that he laughed too loudly. Talked too much.

Now, all you have left is the silence he's left behind, and it's unbearable. You'd do anything to hear that obnoxiously loud laugh again.

Most days, you still expect to hear his keys jingling in the lock, his voice calling out something stupid as he kicks the door shut behind him.

You still catch yourself turning toward the couch when you pass it, waiting for him to be there, sprawled out with a controller in his hands, feet on the coffee table, because he never listened when you told him not to.

But he’s not. And he won’t ever be again.

That should be enough incentive to make you leave this place, to get out of this house, to push yourself back into a life that isn’t just waiting for him to walk through the door.

But it isn't, and you don't.

Instead, you stay right where he left you and you exist through your days, which by now are all the same.

You consistently wake up late and spend too long staring at the ceiling. Your coffee still runs cold before you remember to sip it, and everything you eat still tastes bland.

Nothing ever changes.

Except for the one new ritual added to that routine: you, sitting at the kitchen table, staring at that anonymous postcard, every day since you got it.

And you wonder why it won’t let you go.

It’s been days, and you still can’t stop thinking about the damn thing.

Maybe it’s because it came at the right—no, the wrong—time.

When the house felt particularly quiet, when the weight of December and the first holiday season without him was pressing in on you, when you felt more like a ghost haunting your own life than a person still meant to be here.

Or maybe it’s because you just want something to care about again. To keep your mind off of things you wish you could just forget.

Whatever it is, it's enough for you to want to know more, and it starts with looking up the brewery it was sent from.

That’s easy enough to find.

A quick Google search, an address in Charlottesville that isn’t too far from you, a website with pictures of the place, and a list of upcoming events—live music, comedy nights, trivia.

No way to connect it back to whoever sent the postcard whatsoever.

Maybe looking up the place should be enough to satisfy your curiosity, but it isn't. So you decide to check the place out for yourself, in person, and maybe look for some additional clues on who this mysterious sender might be.

You shower for the first time in four days.

The hot water stings against your skin, like it’s scalding away something you haven't had the strength to scrub off before now. You stand under the spray longer than you need to, watching steam curl around you, letting it fog up the mirror before stepping out just so you don't have to see yourself in the bathroom mirror.

Once you're out of the shower, you dress without thinking at first—putting on sweats, an old hoodie, your everyday uniform at this point.

Then you pause.

For the first time in months, you reach for something else. Something nicer. Nothing special, but still. A sweater that isn’t stretched out and worn thin. Jeans that fit. You even brush your hair.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

You take the bus to Charlottesville. Miss your stop. Walk the rest of the way.

The streets downtown are slick from last night’s rain, neon lights reflecting off the pavement. Christmas decorations are everywhere—red bows tied to lampposts, wreaths hanging from shop doors, and fairy lights woven through windowsills.

You keep your head down, ignoring all of it, hands shoved deep into your heavy winter coat pockets.

The brewery is bigger than you expected, warm and crowded, smelling of hops and wood and something fried. People laugh, clink glasses, lean in close to be heard over the music playing from the speakers.

You can't help but think that this is stupid—a dumb idea.

Still, you force yourself forward, inside, toward the bar where a bartender with tired eyes and a half-smile leans in to hear you.

“Hey,” You swallow, glancing at the shelves of liquor behind him like they might guide you on what to do next. “Do you guys, uh—get a lot of people passing through here?”

You wince as you ask the question, knowing how stupid you sound.

The guy behind the bar raises a brow, not expecting that.

“Yeah, I guess.” He says, a little unsure, wiping out a glass. “Why?”

You're not sure how to explain this, so you pull the postcard from your pocket, smoothing out the crease you've made from folding it too many times.

“I got this in the mail, from someone who used to live in my house. I don’t know who they are, but—” You lift it slightly. “I figured maybe they come here?”

The bartender takes it, giving it a quick once-over. His mouth twists like he’s trying to place something, but after a second, he just exhales through his nose and hands it back.

“Doesn’t sound like a regular.” He says as he shakes his head.

You frown.

“No?”

“Nah. This is the kind of thing someone writes when they’re passing through, not when they're planning on sticking around.” He wipes condensation off the bar, nodding toward the postcard. “That whole ‘lonely, final goodbye’ thing? Sounds like they were already gone before they even mailed it.”

Sounds like they were already gone.

You swallow.

“The best I can tell you,” he continues, “is to check the event calendar. Look at the performers who passed through in the last month, maybe? See if anything sticks out.”

You should leave—that’s what any normal person would do. Just thank the bartender for humoring them and walk away.

But instead, you glance past him, toward the framed calendar hanging by the register, packed with names and dates in neat little rows.

You hesitate, then sigh.

You've already come all this way, so might as well.

“Can I see that?” You ask, gesturing for the calendar.

The bartender steps aside, letting you lean over the counter to take a better look.

You squint at the tiny print, scanning through a month worth of events—live music, open mics, stand-up comedy. Some names sound like bands. Some are just initials or one-word stage names.

None of them rings a bell, because of course they don’t.

This is stupid.

Still, you take out your phone and snap a picture of the entire thing. For later—not that later will change anything. After that, you tuck your phone away and thank the bartender, finally leaving before you can embarrass yourself further.

Outside, the cold night air bites at your skin. You exhale, watching your breath cloud in front of your face.

Suddenly, you think that he would probably call you crazy for doing this. You can almost hear him now, laughing, amused, and exasperated all at once.

“Jesus, you’re really doing detective work over some random postcard? You need a hobby.”

You swallow hard, throat closing up, because it sounds so real. Like he’s right there beside you, shoving his hands into his pockets, giving you that look—the one that always meant, I love you, but you’re a little insane.

But he isn’t there, and he never will be again.

Your chest aches.

You need to get your shit together.

If this is how you spend your time now—zooming in on a blurry photo of an event calendar from a random brewery, thinking about googling up strangers just to ask them if they perhaps sent drunken mail to anyone lately—it’s clear you don't have much of a life to begin with.

Maybe you do need a hobby.

Walking back to the bus stop, you think about the bus ride here—how you stared out the window as Richmond faded behind you, the hour-long trip to Charlottesville passing in a blur of trees and highways.

How, for the first time in months, you had to exist outside your usual orbit, existing among people who didn’t know you, who weren’t looking at you with pity or concern or asking stupid questions such as “How are you holding up, dear?”

For a second, you almost feel like a normal, functioning person again. The feeling goes away soon enough, though.

The house is too quiet when you get back.

It’s always quiet now, but after the low hum of voices at the brewery, the music, the clatter of glasses and footsteps, this silence is almost unbearable—it presses down on your shoulders, heavy, suffocating.

You take off your shoes, drop your bag by the door, and exhale as you lean against the wall.

You should feel better after getting out, right? That’s what people always say—shit like fresh air, movement, distraction, they're all supposed to make you feel lighter, right?

But instead, it feels like you've aged a thousand years in just a few hours, like the simple act of leaving and returning has drained you of everything.

Or maybe you feel like this because you're here again. Maybe the house itself is sucking you dry.

You rub a hand over your face, pushing away the exhaustion pooling in your limbs, but it doesn’t help. Nothing ever does.

And then, suddenly, you feel it—something ugly, something sharp and cruel, festering under your ribs before you can stop it, because you're miserable.

You're exhausted. You're lonely. And it feels like this is all his fault.

You hate yourself the second the thought creeps in, because what kind of person even thinks that? What kind of person blames the dead for, well—dying?

You do.

Even if just for a split second, you do.

You blame him for leaving you here in this silence. For turning this house into a tomb. For dying and taking everything with him—every sound, every heartbeat, every warm moment that made this place feel like a home instead of just four walls and a roof.

As the thoughts creep in, you press the heel of your hands against your eyes, tears burning behind closed eyelids.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.

To yourself. To him. To the empty, hollow space left between you.

But the silence doesn’t answer.

It never does.

You tell yourself you’ll stop at number five.

Five quick searches, then you’re done.

It’s not obsession—it’s just curiosity. And curiosity is harmless.

You sit on the edge of your bed, knees pulled up, laptop glowing against the dark of your room. The picture of the event calendar is open on your phone, the names blurry from where you zoomed in too much.

You pick one name at random and type it into Google.

The first act is a local band. Their website is an abandoned Tumblr page, and their two songs on Spotify sound like they were recorded in someone’s basement with a single, malfunctioning microphone. No mention of a solo traveler sending drunken postcards, of course.

Next.

The second is an indie-folk duo. Their Instagram is filled with aesthetic black and white photos—sunsets, coffee cups, grainy shots of them performing in tiny bars.

You scroll through, looking for anything—posts about being on the road, about traveling alone, about missing home.

Nothing.

Next.

The third is a singer-songwriter with a meticulously curated social media presence. He posts inspirational quotes under every video, smiling like he has never known a bad day in his life.

You click out of his page immediately.

Next.

The fourth is a stand-up comedian.

Big mistake—you watch exactly thirty seconds of a YouTube video before slamming the laptop shut.

He’s the kind of guy who thinks being loud is the same as being funny, the kind who makes jokes about “cancel culture” and “snowflakes” while wearing a t-shirt with a terrible pun on it.

It's so bad you give up before search number five.

Jesus Christ. This is pointless.

You exhale sharply, tossing your phone onto the bed.

The bartender was right.

This person—whoever they are—is probably long gone, leaving behind nothing but a wasted postcard and a stranger wasting their time on it.

So you shove the postcard into your bedside drawer, and that’s the end of it. You're done playing detective.

Days pass.

Or maybe it’s the same endless day, repeating over and over, like a tape stuck on loop.

You wake up. You shower when you manage to conjure up the energy. You eat when you remember to. You sleep when you can.

The cold settles deeper into the city, pressing against the windows, making the streets feel haunted. The nights stretch longer, swallowing the days whole.

Nothing changes.

You don’t check the drawer. You don’t think about the postcard. Not really.

But sometimes, when you’re lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, you wonder—did they ever make it home, wherever that may be? Do they even remember sending it?

Would they care if they knew a stranger was looking for them, holding onto their words like they meant something?

You don’t have answers, of course.

And you won’t find them, because you’re done looking.

Two days later, you wake up to the sound of something scraping against the semi-frozen ground outside.

It drags and scrapes, again and again, rhythmic but uneven—like someone is digging.

For a long moment, you lie in bed, mind heavy with sleep, not sure if you’re still dreaming or if your mind is simply playing tricks on you.

The house has been so quiet these past months, an unbearable kind of silence, like you're stuck in a soundless limbo.

You’ve spent so many nights staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the heater and the occasional creaks of the old house settling, that you're used to the weird noises.

But this—this is different.

You slowly sit up, ears straining, head foggy and pulse sluggish. Then, there it is again. A dull thud. A scrape. A pause. Then another thud—someone is definitely digging.

You push back the covers, shivering as the cold air bites at your skin even through your hoodie. The clock on the nightstand glares back at you—3:14 AM.

Who the hell could be outside your window, digging, at this hour?

Heart hammering, you swing your legs over the side of the bed and move toward the window, peeling back the curtain just enough to see outside, breath fogging up the glass as you scan the yard below. The dim light of the lamp post isn't much help, but you strain your eyes and focus, and then you see it—a tall, dark figure crouched near your dying garden, a shovel in hand.

Your breath catches, rage and fear flaring hot in your chest. There is a stranger outside your house, messing about in the yard.

No—the garden.

His garden.

He’d spent so many mornings out there, drinking his coffee and pulling weeds, talking to the plants like they were old friends. He loved that garden, and you haven’t touched it since he died.

The frost has taken over, creeping along the dead stems, claiming the once vibrant space. And now—now some stranger is out there, digging around in it?

You let the curtain fall back into place and spin around, adrenaline buzzing beneath your skin. You don’t even hesitate—just head straight for the bedroom door, movements sharp and purposeful.

You don’t bother turning on any lights as you make your way downstairs. Your fingers hover over the switch near the front door, but you stop yourself. If someone’s really out there, and if they happen to be dangerous, you don’t want to alert them of your whereabouts.

Instead, you leave the lights out and reach for the baseball bat that still rests behind the entrance door, untouched for months. It was his idea to keep it there—“Just in case,” he used to say, grinning as he twirled it in his hands.

He would laugh if he could see you now, clutching it in your freezing fingers, about to walk outside and confront some lunatic who apparently decided your yard was prime real estate for digging.

You crack the door open, bracing against the rush of icy wind. The porch light flickers on automatically, its dim glow illuminating the yard, causing the man to startle so hard he nearly falls over, dropping the shovel with a dull clank against the frozen ground.

He turns to face you, hands raised in surrender, eyes wide.

And, okay—what the hell?

He’s tall. Ridiculously tall. And covered in tattoos. Dark ink snakes up his hands, his arms, disappearing beneath the pulled-up sleeves of his black hoodie. You can also see ink all over his neck.

His long, messy hair falls over his face, and even in the dim porch light, you can see the wide-eyed panic in his dark eyes.

“Shit—okay, wait—listen,” he stammers, stepping back. His breath curls into the air in white plumes, and he sways slightly, unsteady on his feet.

Is he drunk?

“You have ten seconds to explain before I start swinging.” You say as you tighten your grip on the bat, jaw clenched.

He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply.

“Okay, look, this—” He says, gesturing vaguely toward the considerably large hole in the ground. “This isn’t as bad as it looks.”

“Oh, really? Because it sure looks like you’re desecrating my yard in the middle of the goddamn night!”

“I—yeah, okay, that’s fair,” he says quickly, slurring his words a bit. Definitely at least a little tipsy, then. “But I can explain.”

“Then explain.”

He swallows hard, hands once again raised in surrender, palms out. His fingers are freakishly long.

“I used to live here, alright? A long time ago. And, uh…” He yet again gestures vaguely at the hole he was digging. “When I was a kid, I buried a time capsule here. Like, a treasure box? And I just—I don’t know, I wanted to see if it was still here. Get it back, hopefully.”

You stare at him, disbelief mixing with irritation.

“You’re telling me you broke into my yard at three in the morning, in the middle of December, to dig up some childhood treasure chest?”

He shifts on his feet, looking uncomfortably sheepish.

“Yeah, but—look, it’s not just some stupid thing. It’s important. You have no idea how much it means to me. I… I need to find it. It’s—” He glances at the hole again, like he’s trying to gather his thoughts. “It’s the last thing I have left. It’s all I have left.”

His voice cracks at the end, and it stops you in your tracks. For a moment, everything goes quiet, save for the wind whipping through the trees.

You feel it—a tug in your chest.

It’s the edge in his voice, the kind of desperate longing you’ve been trying to ignore in yourself. The kind that made you search for something, anything, to hold onto after everything you knew went to shit.

And maybe he’s drunk, sure. But the look in his eyes—the hollow look of someone trying to cling to some sort of lifeline—makes you hesitate. You’ve seen that look before in the mirror. You’ve felt that look before.

And then it clicks, because—he’s the one, isn't he? He’s the person who sent the postcard.

For a second, you freeze, your heartbeat quickening, a wave of emotion crashing over you. You stare at him, that realization creeping in, and suddenly, you’re not so sure how to handle this anymore.

You blink hard, trying to shake off the weird emotions, and raise the bat higher as you try to remind yourself that, no matter how desperate they might look, this is still a stranger who's trespassing and ruining your yard. You shouldn't be willing to let him get away with this.

“You really think I’m gonna let you just dig up my yard because you need to find a damn child's box? It’s not happening. Get off my property.”

His expression falters, but he stands his ground.

“I’m not leaving. Not until I find it. You don’t understand—it’s more than just some kid’s memory. It’s—” He runs a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated. “I’m not crazy. I swear. Please, just let me—”

You hate that you feel that tug in your chest again, harder this time, and something in you shifts. You know what that desperation feels like.

Hell, you’ve been drowning in it yourself.

So you lower the bat just a little, just enough to show him you’re considering it, your eyes narrowing.

“Look, I’m sorry, okay? For the… You know. Grave robber vibes.” He tries again, and his eyes soften, just a little. “But just—please. I really need this. I swear I’ll go as soon as I find it. Please.”

God, this is fucking insane.

“Fine!” You snap. Even as the words leave your mouth, you can't believe you're agreeing to this. “You can look for the damn thing. But if you turn out to be a serial killer who’s in fact digging my own grave there, then you fucking suck, 'cause I’m being really nice here.”

He lets out a startled laugh, the sound coming out too easily for someone who was just moments ago pleading to keep digging in your yard like a madman.

“A serial killer?” He repeats, and for a second, it seems like he’s genuinely amused, the corners of his lips pulling up while his eyes glint with humor. “That’s a new one. But don’t worry, I’m not the homicidal type.”

He pauses, then looks at you with something else shining in his eyes now, his expression turning oddly sincere.

“Thank you. Really. You don’t know how much this means to me.” His voice carries a weight that makes your skin prickle. It’s enough to make you uncomfortable, the way he looks at you like you just saved his life.

Like this random act of kindness is everything to him.

You clear your throat and take a step back, trying to shake off the feeling.

“Yeah, yeah. Just keep looking, 'cause you’ve got thirty minutes. After that, you’re out. Don’t make me regret this.”

He nods quickly, the gratitude still heavy in his eyes.

“I won’t, I swear. Thank you.”

You watch him go back to digging, his hands moving with determination now, and you still don’t lower the bat completely. You just stand there, freezing under your hoodie and sweatpants, your mind racing, unsure of how you ended up in this bizarre situation.

He digs like his life depends on it.

His breath comes in short puffs of white against the night air, his fingers dirt-streaked and trembling from what you guess is more than just the cold. You watch, arms crossed, shifting from foot to foot to try and warm up, waiting for the inevitable moment when he realizes his stupid box isn't there anymore and he’s wasted his time.

But then—

“Oh, shit.”

His entire body stills.

For a moment, he just stares down at the hole, his chest rising and falling quickly from exertion, and then he’s dropping to his knees, pulling something from the dirt with both hands—a wooden box, old and weathered but miraculously intact.

You expect him to open it carefully, but no—he pries it open with frantic hands, as if he’s afraid it’ll disappear if he hesitates even a second longer.

His breath shudders out of him when he sees what’s inside.

“Holy shit,” he exhales, voice barely above a whisper. “It’s all still here.”

You don’t say anything. You just watch as he sits right down on the damp, semi-frozen grass, and lifts out a photograph, brushing dirt off the edges with the care of someone handling something sacred.

“This—” He says as he turns it toward you. It’s an old photo, slightly faded, showing a familiar house and a young-looking couple posing together in front of it.

Even in sepia tones, you recognize it instantly. The porch, the windows, the yard.

It’s your house.

“My grandparents,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, almost reverent. “They bought this place before I was even born. Spent their whole lives here.”

He pulls out another photo—this time, it shows a little boy grinning between that same couple, older now, a backpack almost too big for his small frame draped over his back.

“That’s me,” he says. “First day of school. My grandparents walked me to the bus stop down the street every morning until I was, like, twelve. Embarrassed the hell out of me, but…”

He trails off, running his thumb over the edge of the picture, voice growing softer. “I get it now. They just wanted to hold onto me for as long as they could.”

Something in your chest aches.

He looks different like this—like the weight he carries has been lifted, even if just for a moment. Like, for the first time tonight, there’s some light in his eyes. It tugs at something inside you, something buried so deep it feels like it shouldn’t still be there.

Because you wish—God, you wish—you could do the same. You wish you could dig somewhere and unearth something that could bring back the light in your eyes. Something that could pull you back to who you used to be before everything happened.

But there’s nothing left for you to dig up, is there?

For one crazy, fleeting second, the thought slams into you with enough force to make your breath catch: if digging something out of the dirt is all it takes to bring back a lost part of yourself, then why can’t you just go to the cemetery, dig up your best friend, and demand he comes back?

The thought is so absurd, so horrifying, that your stomach twists violently against it. But the feeling lingers, even as you shake your head, even as you try to push it down.

Because the truth is, if you could, you would. If you thought it would work, you would.

You clear your throat, trying to rid yourself of the weight pressing down on you, and shift your stance. He’s still staring at the photo in his hands, lost in something only he can see.

Then, as if suddenly remembering you’re there too, he glances up.

“Come here,” he says, patting the grass beside him without hesitation. “You gotta see this.”

And you should say no.

You should turn around, go back inside, lock the door, and leave him to his nostalgia.

Better yet, you should ask him to get the fuck out of your property now that he's found what he was seeking.

But you don’t, because that small light is still in his eyes. And you think—just for a moment—that if you sit next to him, maybe some of that warmth will reach you, too.

So you turn around, step inside for a moment, and drop the bat near the door before coming out again and making your way over to him.

He barely even acknowledges you moving, too caught up in what he’s unearthing from the past.

The ground is freezing as you lower yourself beside him, the cold seeping through your clothes immediately, but you choose to ignore it.

He pulls out a tiny Lego man next, dusting him off with an amused huff. “I was obsessed with this guy. Had this whole elaborate storyline for him. He was, like, a secret agent with a double life. Normal guy by day, total badass by night.”

You huff out something that almost resembles a laugh.

“What a nerd.”

“Absolutely,” he agrees, grinning, but then his expression softens as he pulls out another object—something small and round that you can’t quite make out right away. He turns it over in his palm.

“My grandpa used to carry this around,” he says. “A pocket watch. It broke, like, years before I found out about it, but he kept it on him anyway. He used to tell me it was a magic watch, that it could stop time if you knew the right trick.” He shakes his head. “I spent so long trying to figure it out.”

He laughs under his breath, but there’s something wistful behind it.

“I put it in here because I thought if I buried it, I’d come back and it’d be fixed. I dunno. Kid logic.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you just let him keep talking. And he does—more than you expected.

He tells you about his grandparents, about how his grandma smelled like oranges because she swore by some old family superstition about rubbing citrus peels on your hands for good luck. How his grandpa used to sit on the porch every morning with his coffee and newspaper, humming the same tune under his breath that no one ever recognized.

He tells you about how the house used to be filled with music, with warmth, with a life that’s long since been swallowed by time.

And you listen.

You listen because, for once, it doesn’t feel like you’re just existing. For once, the world isn’t so heavy, so empty, so cold.

And you know it won’t last.

In a few minutes, he’ll run out of things to reminisce. He'll close the box, the light will fade from his eyes, and the weight will return to both your shoulders.

But for now—for now, you sit beside this stranger in the cold, watching the past come alive through the objects in his hands, through the words leaving his mouth, and you glimpse into a life that was never yours.

You don’t know how long you sit there, knees pulled to your chest against the cold, listening as he pulls each tiny relic from the past and brings it back to life with his stories.

There's a marble.

A single, tiny, blue marble, its surface cloudy with age.

“Used to think it held the whole sky inside it,” he murmurs, rolling it between his fingers. “Swore I could see clouds moving in there if I stared long enough.”

There's a folded-up note, edges crumbling with time.

He hesitates before unfolding it, smoothing it out carefully on his knee.

“A letter to my future self.” His lips twitch up when he speaks. “Bet it’s something stupid.”

It is.

The handwriting is messy, barely legible. He squints at it in the dim light, clears his throat, and reads it aloud:

“Dear Future Me,

Are you famous? I hope you got us into a cool band like I planned. And do we have a dog? Our own house? Did you manage to leave town, or are we still in Richmond?

I hope you didn’t turn out lame. If you did, just lie about it.

(P.S.: If you have a wife, don’t be a dumbass. Tell her you love her. That's what grandpa always says, and he's usually right about that stuff.)”

You don’t mean to laugh, but the way he groans and drags a hand down his face makes it impossible not to. He crumples the letter back up, tossing it inside the box.

“God, I was a little shit.” He mutters, but there's amusement in his voice.

He keeps going, explaining trinket after trinket. Sharing fragment after fragment as he pulls random things out from his little treasure box.

You don’t say much—instead, you just listen.

And for the first time in what feels like forever, it doesn’t feel like you’re drowning in silence.

But eventually, inevitably, he runs out of objects and stories, and starts putting things back. Your chest tightens as you watch him tuck each piece of his past carefully into the box, securing the lid, brushing away the dirt.

He’s leaving.

You shouldn’t care. You barely know him. You don't know him.

But the thought of this moment ending—of him leaving and taking the momentary warmth away, of being left alone in the silence again—makes your stomach twist.

So, before you can overthink it, you clear your throat and blurt out the words: “Where are you staying? While here in Virginia, I mean.”

He glances up, like he wasn’t expecting you to ask.

“Charlottesville.” He nods vaguely down the street. “Took the bus here earlier, figured I’d just go to the bus station and wait for the first bus back in the morning.”

At that, something in your chest twists even tighter, and you don’t know why.

Maybe it’s because you know how miserable the bus station is at night—cold, empty, barely more than a fluorescent-lit limbo. Maybe it’s because it doesn’t sit right with you that he’s just going to disappear into the dark, back to whatever life he’s been wandering through before this.

Or maybe—maybe you’re just simply not ready to be alone again.

So, against all logic, against every instinct that should be screaming at you to let him go, you say, “You can stay here.”

He blinks.

“What?”

“Just for the night,” you say quickly, before you can change your mind. “You can crash on the couch. It’s freezing, and you’re kinda drunk—no, don't deny it, I can smell the alcohol in your breath.”

The words make his cheeks darken enough that you notice it even in the dim light, but you don't comment on it.

“Waiting at the bus station for hours sounds like hell,” you shrug. “But it's up to you.”

He just looks at you, and for a second, you wonder if you’ve made a mistake—if you’ve misread the entire situation, if he’ll think you’re weird or crazy or too much. But then—

“Yeah,” he says, voice quieter now. “Yeah, okay.”

And just like that, you’re bringing a stranger into your home.

A stranger who sent you a drunken postcard.

A stranger who just unearthed his childhood from your backyard.

A stranger who, for some reason, doesn’t feel like a stranger at all.

Inside, the warmth of the house seeps into your freezing skin, making goosebumps rise all over your body, and you realize just how truly cold you were outside.

You shut the door behind you, locking it out of habit, then glance at the man as he steps further in, his eyes sweeping the space carefully, like he’s making an effort to commit every detail to memory.

There’s something oddly hesitant about the way he moves around the room, like he’s walking through a dream, a place he only half remembers.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just takes it all in—the cluttered bookshelves, the old coffee table, and the worn sofa that doesn’t quite match the armchairs sitting opposite it. As you watch him, you can’t help wondering what he thinks about it all.

“You changed the layout so much,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.

His fingers skim the back of the couch absentmindedly, and when he speaks again, it's louder, like this time the words are actually directed at you.

“The walls used to be a different color. Furniture was all pushed against them, too. My grandma had this old ass china cabinet right over—”

He gestures vaguely toward the far wall, but his words trail off, his attention shifting elsewhere, thought forgotten. You follow his gaze, and that’s when you realize what he’s looking at.

The pictures.

They line the wall, sit over the fireplace—snapshots of moments frozen in time. In every single one, you’re there, smiling, laughing, caught in moments that will never exist again.

And beside you, always, is him.

You feel the question coming before he even says it.

“Oh, is that your boyfriend?”

It’s such an innocent question, and yet, it slams into you like a fist to the chest.

He doesn’t notice your reaction at first, still looking at the photos as if they’re the most interesting things he's ever seen.

“Is he sleeping?” He presses, voice lowering to a murmur, as if it would make a difference after all the noise he's made by digging about outside. “Shit, sorry if I—”

“No.”

Your voice comes out sharper than you intend—too cold. Too final.

“That’s my best friend,” you say, forcing the words out, as if it costs you greatly to explain this. And it does, you realize, as you try to keep your voice steady. “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

Silence.

You can feel him looking at you now, trying to put the pieces together and make sense of what you mean, but you don’t meet his gaze. You keep your expression blank, keep your shoulders squared, keep yourself from folding under the weight pressing against your ribs.

“Got it,” he says after a moment, voice quieter now. Gentler.

Just like that, the conversation ends. He doesn’t push, doesn’t pry, just nods and keeps moving as he looks around, but the air between you feels heavier now, thick with something left unsaid.

You exhale slowly, trying to shake it off. Then, before the silence can stretch any further, you blurt out, “What’s your name?”

He blinks, caught off guard.

“What?”

“Your name,” you repeat. “I just let you into my house, and I don’t even know what to call you.”

“Oh. Right.” He huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Uh—Noah. My name’s Noah.”

Noah.

The name settles into your brain, into your chest, into the walls and the floorboards and the space between you.

You nod once.

“Okay, Noah.” You say the name out loud, trying it out, testing the weight of it on your tongue. “Are you hungry? I can fetch us something to eat.”

And then, without waiting for a response, you turn and head for the kitchen, pretending the sound of his name doesn’t linger in your head—on your tongue—a little longer than it should.

You hear his footsteps follow, and when you reach the kitchen, he steps in right beside you. When you look at him, you can see he’s scanning the place, taking in the details, like he’s once again trying to piece together what’s changed since the last time he was here.

You move toward the fridge, but before you can open it, he steps forward.

“Oh, please—let me.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“You want to make your own food?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “I want to make our food. It’s the least I can do after waking you up, trespassing in your yard to dig around, and then keeping you up to talk about my—” He huffs out a self-deprecating laugh as he gestures vaguely with his hands. “—my stupid childhood stories.”

His words make something protective flare in your chest, though you’re not sure why. It doesn't make any sense.

“They weren’t stupid,” you protest immediately.

Noah just gives a noncommittal shrug.

You shake your head but don’t argue. Instead, you lean against the counter, crossing your arms over your chest and watching as he opens a cabinet at random.

“Not that one,” you say, and he pauses.

“Where’s the bread, then?”

“Cabinet to your left.”

He adjusts, grabbing the loaf and setting it down. Then, without looking up, he asks, “Plates?”

“Top shelf.”

“Silverware?”

“Drawer next to the sink.”

Noah follows your instructions without hesitation, pulling things together with an ease that surprises you. You don’t know what you expected—maybe for him to be more hesitant, more awkward in a space that isn’t his—but he moves through the kitchen with confidence, his hands steady as he unwraps the bread and starts making the sandwiches.

You find yourself watching his hands.

They’re big—really big—but oddly graceful. His fingers move with precision as he spreads mustard onto a slice of bread, and something about the motion is… calming. Strangely comforting.

The repetitive, familiar sounds of food being prepared fill the quiet, and for the first time in what feels like forever, there isn’t suffocating silence in your house.

“So,” he says after a moment, “what’s your verdict?”

You blink.

“On what?”

“Me being a serial killer.” He says as he quickly glances at you, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Have I redeemed myself of that first impression?”

You snort, shaking your head.

“The jury’s still out.”

“Damn. Tough crowd.”

“You did dig up my yard in the middle of the night.”

“I did,” he agrees, nodding solemnly. “And yet, here I am, in your kitchen, holding a knife while making you a sandwich and definitely not stabbing you. If that’s not proof of good character, I don’t know what is.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips.

Noah doesn’t seem to notice—he’s too focused on what he’s doing, stacking slices of ham and cheese onto the bread like he’s making the most important sandwiches of his life.

Then, without looking up, he says, “I used to make these for my grandparents all the time.”

You blink. The shift in conversation is so sudden, so casual, that it catches you off guard.

“When I was a kid,” he continues, “they both worked a lot, so I’d try to help out however I could. I wasn’t much of a cook, but I was a master at peanut butter and jelly. And sandwiches. Lots and lots of sandwiches.”

There’s fondness in his tone as he sifts through old memories yet again.

“They never complained, even when I sucked at it, coming up with terrible new combinations,” he says, a small smile ghosting across his lips. “My grandma used to say that a sandwich made with love tastes better than a five-star meal. Which, looking back, was probably her way of trying to make me feel better about putting way too much mustard on everything.”

You let out a quiet laugh.

“So should I be worried?”

“About what?” He sounds genuinely confused, and it's adorable.

“The amount of mustard, of course.”

“Nah,” Noah says as he looks up, meeting your eyes again. He grins. “I’ve perfected my craft since then.”

You huff a small laugh but don’t look away. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you—something warm, something open—that unsettles you in a way you don’t quite understand.

Instead of dwelling on it, you shift in place and say, “And just so you know… I really meant it when I said your childhood stories weren’t stupid. I liked hearing about them, and about the house, too.”

For a moment, Noah says nothing, and just stares at you with those unnerving dark eyes of his—eyes that make it feel like he's looking right into your soul.

After what feels like forever, he clears his throat and looks away, sliding a plate toward you.

“Well,” he says, voice quieter now, “thanks for listening.”

You don't say anything as you take the plate, the coolness of the porcelain sinking into your fingers, and as you walk back to the living room, his footsteps following close behind, the house doesn’t feel quite so empty.

Neither do you.

You settle onto the couch while Noah takes the armchair across from you. The air between you feels lighter now, easier.

You finally take a bite, surprised at the taste.

“Okay,” you say, chewing, “not bad. Not bad at all.”

Noah scoffs. “Excuse me?”

“You were talking this up like you were some kind of sandwich prodigy, man. I was expecting a life-changing experience.”

He places a hand over his heart, mock-offended.

“I’ll have you know, that is a damn good sandwich.”

You smirk. “It’s edible.”

“Wow.” He shakes his head, taking a bite of his own sandwich, clearly trying to hide a smile. “Ungrateful.”

You let out a small chuckle, and for a few minutes, the two of you just eat in comfortable silence.

Then, between bites, Noah says, “I still can’t believe this house is so different now. Even just the living room. The couch used to be over there,” he gestures toward the opposite wall, “and my grandma had all these little porcelain birds over the fireplace that I wasn’t allowed to touch. But I did, obviously.”

You raise an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I broke one,” he admits. “A tiny blue jay. I was, like, eight, and I panicked. So I tried to glue it back together, but I sucked at it, and it ended up looking like some Frankenstein version of a bird. My grandma took one look at it and just sighed, all disappointed. My grandpa, though? He laughed so hard he nearly cried.”

You huff out a laugh.

“Sounds like your grandma had her hands full with you two.”

“Oh, definitely.” He grins, settling deeper into the chair. “I was a menace, just like grandpa. You have no idea how many times Mrs. Peterson threatened to call the cops on me.”

You nearly choke on your sandwich.

“Mrs. Peterson?”

“Yeah,” he says, giving you a look. “You know her?”

“Know her?” You groan the question out. “That woman was the neighborhood number one gossip. I swear she made it her personal mission to know everyone’s business.”

Noah laughs.

“That sounds about right. She used to sit on her porch and act like the neighborhood security system. If I so much as looked at my bike the wrong way, she’d be yelling at me about how kids these days don’t respect their belongings.”

“Oh my God,” you groan again, more dramatically this time, rubbing your temples. “She used to do that to me, too! Except instead of my bike, she was always getting on my case about my car.”

Noah raises an eyebrow. “Your car?”

“Yep,” you say, sighing. “I used to drive this old, beat-up Toyota, and I was never exactly… gentle with it.”

He smirks. “Define not gentle.”

“I mean, it got me from point A to point B.” You say, waving a hand dismissively. “Who cared if I left empty coffee cups in the back seat or if I never remembered to take it to the car wash?”

Noah just stares at you, blinking. And then—

“Oh my God,” he says with a laugh. “You were the menace!”

You gasp.

“I was not!”

“No, no, I see it now,” he says, pointing at you with his sandwich. “Poor Mrs. Peterson was just a concerned citizen, and you were out there treating your car like a dumpster on wheels.”

You shake your head.

“Whatever. The point is, Mrs. Peterson was obsessed with how I treated that car. Every time I passed by her house, she’d make some comment about how I was ‘disgracing a perfectly good vehicle’ or how I ‘lacked discipline and self-respect.’”

Noah snorts.

“Sounds about right.” There's an amused, teasing glint to his eyes when he says it.

“Oh, shut up,” you mutter.

“Come on,” he says, grinning. “She was kind of funny.”

“Oh yeah, hilarious.” You retort sarcastically, rolling your eyes. “You know she once told people that my best friend and I were actually related?”

Noah blinks. “Wait, what?”

“Yeah,” you say, nodding. “She decided that we had to be related in some way because, apparently, a man and a woman being just friends but living together wasn’t believable enough for her.”

“So… What?” Noah looks both amused and confused. “She just declared you relatives?”

“Not just relatives,” you say, pointing at him. “According to her, we were close relatives. Practically siblings. And the only reason we pretended to be just best friends was because we were actually a couple living in sin.”

Noah stares at you for a second before bursting into laughter.

“No way!” He says between laughs.

“Yes, way!” You insist. “She spread that story around like gospel. And you know she believed it too, because every time she saw us, she’d give us these looks—like we were bringing some scandalous shame upon her sacred neighborhood.”

Noah is still laughing, actually doubling over a little, shaking his head.

“That’s insane.”

“You’re telling me.” You exhale, leaning back against the couch, a soft smile on your lips. Then, without thinking, you add, “He actually liked her, though.”

That makes him pause again, tilting his head.

“Your friend?”

“Yeah.” You nod, picking at the crust of your sandwich. “I complained about her a lot, and every time, he would just shrug and say she was probably lonely. That minding people’s business was her weird way of connecting with the world.”

Noah’s expression softens, and it makes your heart ache.

“He used to help her out, too,” you continue. “Cut her grass, help her plant new flowers, and all. He liked doing that stuff—gardening, I mean.” You pause, swallowing against the sudden tightness in your throat. “He had a way with plants, y’know? Could bring anything back to life.”

Noah is quiet for a moment, just watching you, then he says, “I get that. My grandma taught me everything I know about gardening. We spent every summer afternoon out in the yard together, tending to the plants. She made it feel… Peaceful, I guess.”

Something about that makes your heart ache harder.

It’s a simple thing, but it means something. The way Noah speaks about his grandmother with warmth, the way he understands why your best friend would’ve found comfort in the soil and the roots and the life that comes from them.

“Do you still garden?” You ask.

“When I can,” Noah says, giving you a shrug that's accompanied by a small smile. “It’s kinda hard when you don’t have a real home.”

You stare at him, suddenly aware of just how much he’s been carrying.

You don’t know why, but the thought of him—this person who once had a home full of warm memories—now floating from place to place, with no roots, no permanence… It bothers you.

It shouldn’t. You don’t even know him. And yet.

Something about him—about the way he’s sitting in your living room, eating a sandwich he made in your kitchen, sharing stories that make you feel something other than empty—makes it feel like maybe you do know him now. Even if just a little.

“Anyways,” you say, trying to stir the conversation back to safer grounds. “Mrs. Peterson? That woman lived to stir up drama.”

“I bet she still does,” he says with a soft chuckle.

“She, uh…” You hesitate, all the humor draining from your face. “She passed away. A few years ago.”

Noah pauses.

“Oh,” he says, expression sobering. “Damn.”

You nod, staring down at your sandwich. “Yeah.”

A beat of silence passes.

“Still,” Noah says, softer this time, “I bet she was spreading rumors ‘til the very end.”

Despite yourself, you smile.

“Yeah. She probably told the nurses at the hospital that the doctor was illegally selling organs on the black market or something.”

That makes Noah laugh again, and his laughter makes you laugh, too. It’s been a long time since you’ve laughed like this.

But as the laughter slowly fades, a familiar heaviness settles back in your chest. Because suddenly, he is in your mind again—your best friend, his smiling face flashing through your thoughts like a memory you weren’t prepared for, and it makes you realize: this is the first time you’ve talked about him out loud since he died.

The first time you’ve let yourself share with someone else even a fraction of who he was and what you had.

It should hurt more than it does, you think.

In some ways, it does hurt—like a dull, familiar ache in your ribs. But as you glance at Noah, who’s still a bit flushed from laughing too hard, you realize that talking about him, especially like this, isn’t as painful as you expected.

In fact, it almost feels nice. Like, for just a moment, the weight of grief isn’t crushing you completely.

You’re not sure what to do with that.

After you finish eating, Noah stands up and gathers the plates without a word, surprising you as he walks back to the kitchen to deal with them, leaving you a moment alone with your thoughts.

The open space allows you to watch as he moves around with efficiency, rinsing off the dishes and wiping down the counter, his movements relaxed, unhurried, as if he still belongs in the house.

Watching his back as he stands by the sink, you can almost convince yourself that it’s not Noah you’re seeing—it’s him. For a fleeting second, if you pretend the tattoos aren’t there, or that the strands of his hair are much shorter, you can make yourself believe your best friend is back.

For a blissful moment, you get to pretend the last few months of pain and loneliness and despair had never been real. That it was all a big, horrible nightmare.

God, you wish.

Shaking the thoughts away, along with the sharp sting of pain it brings, you get off the couch and climb the stairs, your steps slow and heavy. At the far end of the hallway stands the closed door of your best friend’s room, right next to yours—a room you haven’t dared enter since the funeral.

For a moment, you consider offering Noah to stay in the room. After all, a soft, warm bed would be much better than a cold, hard couch. But the thought immediately makes something twist in your stomach.

You still can’t bring yourself to step into what used to be his space, the room that holds so many memories of someone irreplaceable. No one else is allowed to disturb that place, much less a stranger, no matter how nice a stranger they might be.

So instead, you rummage through the hallway closet and pull out a couple of extra pillows and a thick, worn comforter—the only items that might turn the living room couch into something resembling a proper, comfortable sleeping space.

When you return to the living room, you find that Noah is still in the kitchen, putting away the condiments he used for the sandwiches back inside the fridge.

Just as he’s about to close the fridge door shut, something catches his eye.

“Huh.” He tilts his head. “You like Corona, too?”

The reaction is instant—you stop mid-step, frozen. Your grip tightens on the blankets. He doesn’t notice the way your face shuts off, the way your body goes rigid.

“Mind if I have one?” He asks, still looking into the fridge, reaching for one of the bottles as he speaks out.

You remember the six-pack you’d bought weeks ago—purchased out of habit, without thought.

They’re not yours.

They’ve been sitting in the fridge for weeks, untouched. You weren’t even thinking when you grabbed them at the store—just running on autopilot, your mind so foggy with grief that muscle memory took over.

He always asked you to grab him beer whenever you went shopping. Always made you double-check that you wouldn’t forget. And so you didn’t.

Even when he wasn’t there to ask or to drink them.

Even when he wasn’t there at all.

A lump forms in your throat as memories of late afternoons spent with your best friend over beer—his gentle smile, his ridiculous humor—flash before your eyes.

You had only realized your mistake when you got home that day, unpacked everything, and saw the six-pack sitting on the counter. Then you cried yourself to sleep at four in the afternoon, only waking up again the next day.

Noah turns to you, still holding the fridge door open, waiting for an answer.

You want to be pissed. You want to tell him to put the bottle back. Tell him to fuck off and just go to sleep.

You swallow hard.

“Yeah,” you manage to say, your voice quiet. Then, to your own surprise, you add, “Grab one for me, too.”

Noah pauses for a moment, watching you closely, as if he can sense something’s off. But instead of asking, he just nods and retrieves two bottles, pops the caps off with the opener on your fridge, and hands one to you when he’s back in the living room.

You take the bottle without another word, then take a careful sip, the cool liquid mixing with bittersweet memories.

This time, as you both settle into the living room, you take the armchair near the window, while Noah arranges the pillows and comforter on the couch. Making himself comfortable, he pulls the comforter over his lap.

He takes a sip of his beer, then glances at you.

“Corona is my go-to, you know,” he muses, tipping the bottle slightly to watch the liquid shift inside. “Reminds me of my grandpa. That was his beer of choice, too.”

You hum in response, taking a sip from your own. You don't have anything to add to that, so you don't.

The mention of his grandfather seems to unlock a few more memories, and he begins to speak again, eager to talk about someone he clearly misses, his tone soft and reflective.

You’re not sure how you get there, but as you drink, he ends up telling a story about how his grandpa always tried to fix things around the house himself instead of hiring someone to do it, and much to his grandmother's amusement and chagrin, somehow always managed to make it worse.

And you listen.

“Don’t get me wrong, he was full of wisdom—always had the best advice for anything you’d throw at him.” He says with a fond smile, but the glint of sadness in his eyes is impossible to miss. “But he was terrible with his hands.”

Noah chuckles, shaking his head. His voice is steady, easy—a comforting sound to accompany the low hum of the fridge coming from the kitchen, and the gentle rustling of the comforter whenever he moves.

“I remember the time he tried to fix a leaky sink. Ended up flooding half the kitchen until grandma had to come in and shut everything down herself. She practically dragged him away, threatening to file for divorce if he didn't call a plumber.”

You listen, each word wrapping around you like a warm blanket. You can picture his grandpa—the man from the picture, determined, wise yet hopeless with a wrench—and the way his grandmother’s stern love would have both scolded and comforted him.

Noah continues, “He was the kind of man who might make a mess of the repairs, but he could fix a broken heart with just a few words. Always knew what to say to make you feel better. I always admired that about him.”

The conversation meanders into lighter topics after that—memories of summer afternoons spent in the garden, laughter that echoed on warm evenings, and the comforting routine of a simple, happy childhood.

At some point, the warmth from the beer seeps into your skin, the exhaustion from the day creeping up on you.

You don’t remember when exactly your eyes close.

All you know is that, for the first time in months, you fall asleep with someone’s voice in the background instead of unbearable silence.

You wake up to the soft glow of late morning light spilling through the curtains, casting long shadows across the living room.

There's a crick in your neck and an ache in your lower back, your body stiff and uncomfortable from the awkward position you must’ve slept in.

Your eyelids flutter open, and as you slowly try to blink the haze of sleep away, the first thing you register is that you’re curled up in the armchair, tangled in a heavy comforter.

Confusion settles in. Why were you sleeping in the armchair?

You push yourself upright, wincing as your joints protest, your brain still sluggish with sleep. You blink some more and look around the living room, trying to piece together how you ended up here.

And then, slowly, things start to come together—the cold night air, the crunch of semi-frozen dirt. The quiet desperation in the eyes of a stranger digging in your yard.

Noah.

Memories flood back all at once—the treasure box, the stories, the sandwiches and the beers in the living room. His laughter ringing through the house. His voice lulling you into sleep before you even realized you were drifting.

Your stomach sinks as you glance at the couch, because it’s empty. The pillows are still there, slightly indented from where he must have laid his head, but Noah himself is gone.

Noah is gone.

A strange, hollow sort of disappointment settles in your chest.

You shouldn’t be surprised. You’re not surprised. He was always going to leave—this was never anything more than a passing moment in the middle of a winter night, a crazy chain of events wrapped in quiet conversation and borrowed warmth.

And yet, something in your chest twists at the thought of him leaving without a word. You don’t know why it stings. He never said he’d stay.

Maybe it’s because, for the first time in so long, the emptiness in this house wasn’t unbearable. It wasn’t suffocating. It was filled—by another voice, another presence, another person simply existing here beside you.

You hadn’t realized just how much his presence had filled the cracks, how much softer everything had seemed with another person breathing in the same space as you.

And now, in the aftermath of that, the silence feels even worse than before.

Sighing, you shift the comforter off—realizing Noah had draped it over you before leaving, and ignoring how that small detail makes you feel—and start folding it, smoothing the fabric between your fingers.

It’s only when you move to place it back on the couch that you notice it: something small, something slightly crumpled, resting on the pillow Noah had used.

A note.

You hesitate before picking it up.

The handwriting is slightly messy, like it was written in a hurry, but still legible:

“Thanks for letting me dig around in your yard and crash on your couch. I owe you one.

If you ever want to fix the mess I made—or if you need help with the garden, since you said your friend was the one who used to take care of it—shoot me a text. I’ll be more than happy to help.

I don't know if we’ll be seeing each other, or even talking to each other again, before Christmas.

If we don't—Merry Christmas. And thank you so much. Again.

— Noah”

He left you a phone number.

You stare at it for a long time, your fingers ghosting over the ink. Something tight presses against your ribs, something stupidly close to relief.

Waking up alone, the comforter around your shoulders like a silent apology, the space around you empty once again. His absence had felt too much like an ending.

But this—this note—felt like something else.

An afterthought, a lingering presence, proof that it wasn’t just some meaningless, passing moment to him either. And yes, sure, the offer is casual. Maybe he doesn’t even mean it, maybe he’s just being polite.

But it’s there.

You don’t realize how long you sit there, the note loose in your grip, until the stillness of the house starts pressing in again. Until the ticking of the clock on the wall reminds you that you’ve already wasted enough time sitting around like this.

You press your lips together, shoving the note into your pocket as you move toward the stairs, up to your room.

You try to tell yourself you won’t text him.

You last less than 24 hours before you do.

YOU: Hey, Noah. I might take you up on that offer to help me fix the garden. Let me know when it’s best for you.

A reply comes less than five minutes later.

NOAH: How does tomorrow sound? Say, 3 PM? YOU: Sure, that works. NOAH: Awesome! See you tomorrow, then. :)

this silly little thing was inspired by this post here. also, some of the grieving parts were inspired by @concretejunglefm's 'poltergeists'. i channeled bubs a few times there, so thank you for the trauma, lexi!! and thank you for beta reading this and being so supportive, if i'm writing again and sharing it, it's mostly thanks to you. i love you.

#recs

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