“The Door Between Us”
I still remember the way the sunlight hit the pharmacy window that afternoon — golden, sharp, almost accusatory — as if it knew exactly what I was buying.
A small packet. Ordinary to the world, but to me, it felt like a secret promise — a ticket to something intimate, long-awaited, and uncertain.
The pharmacist’s eyes met mine for half a second. He didn’t say a word, just gave that faint, knowing smirk that made my pulse quicken. I slipped the packet into my pocket as though hiding a stolen secret.
Sarah was coming.
After three endless months apart — of long-distance calls that faded with static, of texts that felt like echoes in an empty room, of nights staring at the phone just to see her name light up — she was finally coming home.
I thought I was ready. I wasn’t.
The Message
Back in my apartment, everything looked wrong. Too quiet. Too sterile. The bed was made, the table clean, the air thick with the faint hum of anticipation.
I stared at the clock. Forty-five minutes. I showered, changed, sprayed perfume — too much maybe — and checked the mirror one last time. I looked like a man pretending not to be nervous.
And then, the phone buzzed.
A single message blinked on the screen.
“I’m at your door. Please, open it.”
For a heartbeat, my chest froze.
Three months of distance, condensed into seven words.
