Home, Even Now

By Anasera

That night, the yellow lamp hung dim, as if refusing to witness. Biantara sat between his father and mother, waiting for his name to slip into a conversation that never paused.

Nothing arrived.

He lowered his gaze, stood, slid his chair too quietly to be noticed, then left, like something that had never existed.

In his room, he sat at the edge of the bed. The air felt heavy, as if the walls were holding his breath hostage.

His eyes struck an old photograph: three faces smiling, leaning close.

He stepped nearer, touching the cold glass. The smiles remained whole, untouched.