Some endings arrive like doors closing.
Others arrive like windows left open—quiet, unresolved, letting air move freely between what was and what will never fully be again.
Elia learned the difference the morning she woke up alone after Ilan's return.
The apartment was quiet in the way it had been before him, but not empty. The air still felt touched, as if something gentle had passed through and left warmth behind. She lay still for a long moment, staring at the ceiling, listening for signs of him.
Nothing.
She sat up slowly.
On the chair by the window, folded with deliberate care, was Ilan's jacket.
Her breath caught.
So he had been real. Not a dream. Not grief playing tricks on her heart.
She stood, crossed the room, and picked it up. It smelled faintly of rain and something familiar—coffee, memory, him. Inside the pocket, her fingers brushed paper.
A note.
I didn't want to wake you.
Some goodbyes deserve gentleness.
I'll find my way back.
— I
Elia pressed the paper to her chest.
This time, she didn't cry.
Not because it didn't hurt—but because she understood.
---
Ilan came back the way seasons do.
Never announced. Never promised. Just… arriving.
Sometimes weeks passed. Sometimes months. Once, nearly a year.
Each time, the world softened around him. Sounds dulled. Moments stretched. And Elia—who had learned the shape of waiting—felt time loosen its grip.
They never pretended this was normal.
They learned how to love inside the limits.
When he returned, they didn't waste time asking why. They asked how are you here and are you safe and what do you want to remember this time.
They traveled small distances—parks, bookstores, unfamiliar streets in familiar cities. They avoided photographs. Avoided plans too far ahead.
Instead....