short fiction · 2026-10-10

The Weight of What's Not There

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

In the kitchen, the chair leans slightly, as if someone just rose and stepped away. The teacup holds cold dregs, a ring where lips once pressed. The clock ticks, but its hands feel heavy, reluctant to move. We speak in measured tones, avoiding the space between words where her laughter used to live. Silence isn't empty here— it's filled with the shape of her absence, a presence carved from what is missing. We navigate around it like furniture, careful not to bump, not to disturb the quiet that has settled into the walls. Even the sunlight, slanting through the blinds, casts shadows that seem to reach for her, then retreat, leaving only the faint imprint of warmth where she used to sit.