Penn’s office window, muted grey from the tint, but the glow seeps around the edges. She’s still there.
Still folding her letters.
Still holding her grief like armour.
I want to cross the street. I want to knock on the glass, tell her everything I’ve never dared to say.
I want to tell her that I’ve loved her since I was four.
Since I watched her run down that gravel driveway, sun in her hair, laughter like music I could never stop thinking about.
But I don’t.
I never do.
Instead, I linger in the shadows, letting the warmth of the bar’s light wash over me from a distance.
I let the familiar clatter of bottles and laughter drift to me, thinking of her in that glass cage safe, fragile, aching.
Every memory cuts sharper tonight.
Her in high school, daring and reckless, brushing past him while he laughed too loud.
The way she used to bite her lip when she was thinking, hair falling into her eyes.
The first time she smiled at me like I existed in a world of one the world I still live in.
And yet here I am, hidden, a silent witness.
I watch the bar come alive for the evening rush Blake moving through it, pouring drinks, charming the regulars, laughing too easy.
And all I can do is watch.
Because my place is always here.
Just out of reach.
Just behind the glass.
The city smells of rain that hasn’t fallen, asphalt, and warm beer. I draw a breath that doesn’t fill enough, and let myself feel it all: the ache, the love, the memory, the longing.
I’d tell her if I could. I’d spill it all the years of quiet devotion, the nights spent hoping she’d notice me, the lifetime I’ve carried her in my chest.
But I can’t.
So, I wait.
And I watch.
Until someday, maybe she’ll look up and see me.
Not behind glass.
Not pretending.
Just me.
And maybe then, the ache will be worth it.
