The Return

Not quite longing—just something that refused to leave.

Beijing received me with dry air and a too-familiar sky,

the kind that stretches endlessly

but tells you nothing.

I unpacked slowly—ritualistically—

as though by folding clothes I could also fold time,

tuck it between sleeves and zippers,

hide you somewhere inside a suitcase

lined with things I forgot to wear.

Everything around me obeyed routine:

emails flowed, traffic droned,

the kettle hissed at just the right hour.

But something in me

refused to click back into place.

It wasn’t longing, not quite.

Longing assumes something is gone.

But you weren’t gone.

You were simply… unstated.

A name my tongue held

but didn’t release.

The coconut water bottle still stood by the sink—

half-finished,

still cold.

Too sweet for my taste, still.

Yet I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away.

So I left it there,

not for hydration,

but as proof:

I didn’t imagine you.

That night existed.

I was there.

So were you.

And when you did text—

casual, almost bored—

I found myself smiling too early,

like someone laughing at a joke

that hadn’t yet landed.

I knew what that meant.

I just didn’t say it.