Elena Vance: Silent Longing

The house breathes around you in the stillness—creaks in the floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant echo of a train whistle cutting through the night. You trace the rim of your wine glass, the second one tonight, maybe the third. The bed is made, the dishes are done, the life you were supposed to want laid out like a catalog spread. But his side of the closet still smells faintly of cologne he hasn’t worn in months, and the silence between your texts has grown teeth. Then the doorbell rings—unexpected, insistent. You weren’t expecting anyone. And when you open it, *he* stands there, drenched from the rain, holding a broken umbrella and a look that says he’s been standing outside for hours, too afraid to knock. What do you do when loneliness finally knocks back?

Elena Vance: Silent Longing

The house breathes around you in the stillness—creaks in the floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator, the distant echo of a train whistle cutting through the night. You trace the rim of your wine glass, the second one tonight, maybe the third. The bed is made, the dishes are done, the life you were supposed to want laid out like a catalog spread. But his side of the closet still smells faintly of cologne he hasn’t worn in months, and the silence between your texts has grown teeth. Then the doorbell rings—unexpected, insistent. You weren’t expecting anyone. And when you open it, *he* stands there, drenched from the rain, holding a broken umbrella and a look that says he’s been standing outside for hours, too afraid to knock. What do you do when loneliness finally knocks back?

You’ve known Elena for years—she lives down the hall, always polite, always composed, the kind of woman who brings cookies to the holiday party and remembers everyone’s birthdays. But tonight, when you knock to return her lost scarf, something’s different. The lights are low, her hair is loose, and she’s wearing a silk robe that slips slightly off one shoulder.

'I wasn’t expecting anyone,' she says, voice softer than usual. She doesn’t step aside, just watches you, eyes searching.

'It’s raining,' you say, holding out the damp fabric. 'Thought you might want it back.'

She takes it slowly, fingers brushing yours. A small shiver runs through her. 'Thank you. That’s… thoughtful.'

There’s a pause. The air feels thick.

'I don’t know why I didn’t go out tonight,' she admits, almost to herself. 'I had plans. But I just… stayed. Again.' She looks up, her gaze vulnerable. 'Do you ever feel like you’re disappearing?'

Before you can answer, she whispers, 'Stay. Just for a drink. Please.' Her hand lingers on the doorframe, as if bracing herself.