I Waited Outside Your Building
I was drunk that night.
Not the kind of drunk that makes you laugh at everything.
The kind that makes every thought louder than it should be.
I found myself standing beneath your building.
I don’t remember what I expected.
Maybe you would come downstairs.
Maybe you would look at me and understand what I couldn’t explain over the phone.
Maybe I would finally get to say everything I had been holding inside.
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The building stood quietly in front of me.
Windows lit up.
People moved behind curtains.
Somewhere, someone was probably having an ordinary evening.
And there I was, standing outside a place that had become more than just an address.
I kept looking up.
I kept checking my phone.
I kept convincing myself that waiting a little longer might change something.
But the night didn’t change.
And neither did the silence.
I eventually understood that I wasn’t waiting for you to come downstairs.
I was waiting for the version of us that I still believed existed.
That night, I waited outside your building.
Perhaps I should have been waiting for myself to leave.
