A glass of water left untouched—
Not forgotten, just waiting.
The Apartment with the Locked Drawer
He never considered himself sentimental.
That was for people who saved ticket stubs in shoeboxes, for those who traced their fingers over old photographs as if touch could bring the past back. For people who kept old letters in the backs of drawers, even though the words had long since lost their meaning.
But then, there was the drawer.
The one in his desk. The one that was always locked, though he couldn’t remember when or why he had first started keeping it that way.
There wasn’t much inside—just a few old receipts, a key he didn’t recognize, a folded piece of paper he never opened. But he never touched it. Never cleaned it out. Never threw any of it away.
Maybe it was nothing. Just clutter. Just things. But after a while, it stopped being just a locked drawer.
It became a question.
Something unfinished. Something waiting. Something that, for whatever reason, he wasn’t ready to face.
The Strange Comfort of Leaving Things Unresolved
Not everything needs to be understood.
Some people leave messages unanswered, not because they don’t care, but because responding would mean stepping into something too real.
Some people keep a shirt from years ago, hidden in the back of a closet, not because they still need it, but because letting go of it would mean accepting that the person they were when they wore it no longer exists.
Some people have locked drawers.
Not because there’s something valuable inside. Not because they are hiding anything. But because some things feel more meaningful when left untouched.
Maybe it’s human nature. The need to leave a door slightly open, just in case. The need to keep some things undefined, just so they can continue existing in a way that feels safe.
The Drawer, the Key, the Question Left Unanswered
One night, he stood by the desk, fingers resting against the cool metal of the handle. It had been years since he had last tried to open it. He wasn’t sure what had changed, why this night felt different from all the others.
He reached for the key—the one he had never used, the one that had always been there. He turned it. The lock clicked, quiet but certain.
The drawer slid open.
Inside, nothing had changed. The same old receipts. The same key. The same folded paper, edges softened from years of waiting.
He picked it up. Unfolded it.
Just a name. A date. A place he had forgotten.
Something small. Something meaningless. Something that, for reasons he couldn’t explain, still made his chest tighten just a little.
He placed it back inside. Locked the drawer.
Turned off the light.
Some things don’t need to be understood.
Some questions are meant to stay unanswered.
life 
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