I don’t even know what I’m doing here, like, posting this. It’s almost 2am and I’m just… staring. Out the window. Again. I swear I spend more time looking out that damn window than I do at anything else in my own actual home. Which is ridiculous, right? Because what’s out there? My neighbours. And their… LIFE. My husband passed away three years ago this summer. Cancer. Quick, for cancer. Like, six months from diagnosis to… silence. And I’m 55 now, retired, a teacher. Mrs. Henderson. Or, was. Now I’m just… me. A widow. And honestly, it’s not the searing, gut-wrenching pain anymore, not usually. It’s more like a dull ache, like an old injury that acts up when the weather changes. Or when the neighbours have a party. They’re new, the Millers. Or, relatively new. Moved in about a year ago, I guess. Youngish, like late 30s, early 40s maybe? Two kids, a golden retriever that barks at squirrels like it’s his LIFE’S MISSION, and a steady stream of people in and out of their house. Like, CONSTANTLY. Weekends, definitely. But even during the week sometimes. Cookouts, birthdays, just… gatherings. LOUD gatherings. And I sit here, in the quiet, and I watch. Last night was a big one. Some kind of anniversary, I think I overheard the wife say to someone walking by my fence. String lights everywhere, the smell of barbecue — not that gross charcoal smell, but real wood smoke, you know? And laughter. So much laughter. I could hear the kids squealing, then the adults’ voices rising and falling, a guitar playing something folksy but upbeat. My kitchen window looks right into their backyard, and I just… stood there. With my mug of chamomile tea, which is just sad, if you think about it. Chamomile. For a party. Hilarious. And I watched them. Saw the wife, Sarah, I think her name is, leaning her head on her husband’s shoulder, laughing at something he whispered in her ear. Then she wiped a smudge of barbecue sauce off his chin with her thumb, and he just… smiled at her. This big, easy smile. And for a second, I swear, I could almost feel the warmth of John’s hand on my back, the way he used to pull me close when we were outside, even if it was just to shoo a wasp away from my drink. Just… that easy comfort. It’s gone. Poof. Like a fart in the wind, as John used to say. God, I miss his dumb jokes. I kept watching. The kids were chasing the dog, the dog was doing zoomies, someone was attempting to sing along badly to the guitar. It was so… alive. My house, meanwhile, was so… not. The silence. It’s not just the absence of sound, you know? It’s a WEIGHT. A physical thing. It presses in on you. I can hear the refrigerator humming, the clock ticking in the living room, the way the floorboards creak when I shift my weight. It’s all just… amplified. And every single sound just screams 'EMPTY.' And then my phone buzzed. It was my sister. Calling from Florida. She calls every night, which is sweet, I guess. But it’s always about Mom. Mom’s memory is getting worse, she’s confused, she fell again. And I’m here, hundreds of miles away, just… useless. “Did you call her today?” my sister asks, every single time. And I say yes, of course, even if I only managed five minutes before Mom started asking where John was. It’s just… guilt. Every call is just a fresh dollop of guilt. So, there I was, watching the party, feeling the silence, and then feeling the guilt, all at once. What a combo. I closed the blinds eventually. Couldn’t take it anymore. Went to bed, but didn’t sleep. Just lay there, listening to the muffled sounds of their party slowly winding down. And then, silence again. But a different kind of silence. Theirs was a temporary, post-joy silence. Mine is just… the default setting. Forever, I guess. And I just… I don’t know what to do with it. The silence, the guilt, the stupid chamomile tea. It’s all just… here.