life as poems 'n letters

There was a girl who built a house with love.

She made the foundation with patience, brick by brick, molding it with laughter and late-night talks. She constructed the walls sturdy with trust, painted them with love, filled the hollows with dreams of eternities.

And then one day, he entered.

He didn’t knock—he just walked in, like he had never left. He stood in the doorway, winded from storms outside, and she thought, Perhaps he’s finally found where he belongs.

So she opened the door wide.

She let him in. She allowed him to set down his weights in the corners. She let his grief lean against the walls she had built with so much care. And gradually, without even noticing it, she began molding the house to accommodate him—shifting the furniture so he’d be more at ease, adjusting the hues so he’d be more comfortable, reconfiguring the space to make him wish to rest.

She had forgotten something important.

This house was never meant to be built for him. It had always been hers. But she let herself believe that if she made it perfect enough for him, —then maybe, this time, he would finally stay.

But he was a traveler.

He did not know how to live in a house built for him. He was accustomed to the road, to departing before the roots dug too deep. And so, one day, suddenly—he departed.

The door creaked open behind him, his footsteps echoing away. She stood in the empty house, staring at the space where he used to be.

She waited for him to notice he had left something behind he should have stayed for.

But days went by. Then weeks. Then months.

And the house remained silent, anticipating someone who was never planning on coming back.

Originally, she didn’t touch anything. She left his cup where he had left it last, and kept his chair in its place, as though, in some way, he would come back and everything was going to be back in the same place. But there was the wind, there was the rain, and gradually the house she created for him slowly falls apart.

Then, one night, she did something.

She had worked so hard to get this house just right for him that she’d forgotten why in the world she built it to begin with. This house wasn’t supposed to be remade into something different. It was supposed to keep her dreams, her warmth, her life inside its walls.

So, shaking in her fingers, she picked up a hammer.

She did not destroy the house. No—she re-did it.

This time, the walls were filled with her own dreams. The windows opened onto the things that made her soul sing. She filled the rooms with laughter that was all her own. And gradually, gradually, the house was home again—not for someone else, but for her.

And then, one day, there was a knock on the door.

It was not him.

It was somebody different. Somebody who didn’t need to be talked into staying. Somebody who took a glance around the home she had reconfigured and said, I see you. I adore this place that you’ve built. Can I sit here a while with you?

And finally, for the first time, she smiled.

Because this time, she knew—she would never once remake her home again for a passing stranger.