Rushing out

I would like to be in someone else's room when they are gone. I could sense their footprints and shadows they had left behind on everything they touched, held up before rushing out the room. Like, this is where they scribbled a short list of what they need to do that day or the slight dent in the blanket covers where they sat down making the list. Or the few books they rattled as they slammed the door shut, making them peak out just the slightest amongst the fellow back covers. Or the cup of tea which half empty now, leaving a wet circular spot on the wooden desk, making the impression as if they would come back any moment now to pick it up one last time.

Or that they forgot to close the half-open window, letting a small draft inside the cosy room.

How the slight out of place things in their perfectly neat room showed their human, imperfect side. Oh, how it would please me to see the imperfect in someone seemingly so perfect.