17.03.2026

The swing next to him moves, even though no one is sitting on it.

Maybe it’s the wind. Maybe it’s the memory of someone who used to sit there, pushing off the ground with laughter that still lingers in the air long after the sound itself has gone. He doesn’t turn to look. Some absences are too full to face directly.

The sun is setting slowly, like it understands this moment should not be rushed. Orange melts into gold, gold into something softer, and the sea keeps breathing in and out as if nothing has changed. But everything has.

There are conversations that never finished. Words that were almost said. Days that ended too soon or not the way they were meant to. The empty swing holds all of that without judgment.

He stays.

Not because he doesn’t know how to leave, but because leaving would mean accepting that the space beside him will remain empty. And sometimes it’s easier to sit with the illusion that the next push might bring someone back.

The swing creaks again.

This time, he almost smiles.

Word count: 205

— Maggie
The Afterlove Voice 💫