The Clearing

Light came through the window above the sink, pale and clean. The city below was hushed by glass and the weight of sleep. On the sill, a tangle of spider ivy and a wilting basil caught the wind, their leaves trembling faintly in the draft. I watched the street fill with its usual delivery vans, cyclists weaving between cars, and a woman in a yellow coat hurrying her child across the intersection. Near them, other kids clustered by the school gates, some chasing each other around a bench—mothers chatting and dogs tugging at their leashes. The small park with its majestic oak tree was waking up: pigeons bobbed along the roots, crows gathered in the branches, their black shapes shifting and cawing, always a little apart from the rest. Downstairs, a man in a green jacket was digging a hole near the kerb at the entrance of my building. On the mantel in my apartment, a photograph of Ryan and me leaned against a tall rounded vase—our arms around each other, faces tipped toward the sun. We were happy that day; it was the first time we kissed. He loved the painting I’d made of him and asked if I would be his girlfriend. I said, ‘Yes!’

I sent Ryan a message, the words typed and erased, then typed again. I didn’t want to lead him on and make our separation more difficult for him, but I decided to risk it and tell him that I missed him and wished things could have been different. I waited for his reply, monitoring the clock above the stove, its hands slow and deliberate. The kettle whistled; I poured tea, watching the steam rise and fade. I paced the apartment, circling from kitchen to bedroom to dining room and living room, unable to settle. I caught myself chewing at my cuticles, only noticing when I felt the faint sting of raw skin and tasted the metal tang of blood, my hands a map of nervous habits I couldn’t break. I fed Nima, the goldfish, sprinkling flakes into the water, watching them drift down while she rounded her mouth to eat and then hovered, oblivious and calm, satiated. I wished I could be as unbothered, as satisfied.

The next day, the blue of the kitchen tiles seemed duller, the green of the plants on the sill less certain. I pressed my thumb to the glass of our picture frame, tracing the outline of Ryan’s face. I wondered if I’d made a mistake—if the fireworks I’d craved were less important than the quiet fireplace he offered. I sent another message: ‘Can we chat?’ I waited, checking my phone, refreshing the screen. He must still be upset, I thought. Even he has an ego, I guess. I made myself a cup of tea and then left it on the counter.

Outside, the man in the green jacket was gone, but the hole remained, half-filled with rainwater. The park was nearly empty—just a parked car and a man in a red scarf walking his old retriever, the dog pausing to sniff at puddles. No vans, no cyclists weaving between cars, no children, no mothers with their dogs tugging at leashes. The school gates were bolted shut, and the sky was a shade of light grey that made my eyes squint. Maybe it is quiet because it isn’t a school day. Isn't there a funfair somewhere? I could have sworn I’d read about a pop-up theme park.

For a moment, I thought I saw Ryan just beyond the bench in the park walking towards my building. I ran to the bathroom to freshen up, then waited by the door, then sat at the kitchen table, but he didn’t ring. One imagines seeing an ex-lover everywhere, similar to that time I saw Stephen’s face in a puppy after we’d broken up. When I searched for the spatula to make breakfast, it was missing. The fridge was nearly empty, barring a loaf of bread and a rotten tomato. I need to get some shopping done. Ryan was so good at making sure the fridge was full. I knocked my shin against the kitchen chair, hard enough to bruise. I fed Nima. She seemed paler. I told myself that the whole flat was a weird hue just because of the drizzly, overcast sky.

By the third day, the photograph was the only thing that seemed sharp, still standing by the vase. My cup of tea from the previous day was sitting on the kitchen counter. I rinsed it and put on the kettle, but it didn’t work. Did it work yesterday? I couldn’t remember actually drinking my tea—was it ever hot, or was it cold from the start? I wasn’t thinking straight; I’d hardly slept. I sat down to write Ryan a letter, to explain why I left, to say I hoped we could still be friends the way we were before, but I couldn’t find a pen. I couldn’t find a single sheet of paper either, not even in the printer by my filing cabinet. I noticed the printer itself wasn’t working; I clicked the button a few times, and it didn’t blink. I checked the plug, but it was firm in the socket. Maybe the wiring is off, or the printer has finally died. Maybe I need ink? Ryan would know. What does it matter? There is no paper. Ryan wouldn’t have left the printer tray empty. I thought I’d make him a card instead—he’d always loved my cards, the cartoons I’d draw of us, the heart-shaped stickers—but the pasteboard, scissors, and crayons were gone from their drawer. Had I cleared them out without thinking?

I left voicemails, my voice small and bright, as if I could summon a response with the right cheery tone. I told him I needed him. Maybe I should have stuck around, giving our romance more time. I reached for the light switch but missed it. I blinked, but the world stayed dim. I noticed several boxes everywhere, and I couldn't recall why they were there—had I packed them, or was I supposed to unpack? I must be delirious from the lack of sleep. I tripped over a shoe in the hallway and caught myself on the doorframe. I told myself to book an eye exam, but the number for the clinic was missing from my mobile, or maybe I’d never saved it. I sent Ryan a message: ‘I think you were right—I need to check my eyesight…’ hoping my words might stir a reply of concern, but nothing came. Outside, the street was empty—no car, no man with a red scarf, no retriever. It’s okay; it’s 5 a.m. on a Sunday. Relax.

The rest of the day was a blur. All I remember is mulling over the conversation we had when I told him that I wasn’t into him in the way that he deserved and that I needed more passion, and how my words angered him because he said he loved me more than anything in the world—and I remember ruminating over the sight of him as he shed tears, pleading for a change of heart, and then as he stormed off, telling me to go “to hell” for giving up. Even in his frustration, he couldn’t bring himself to truly disrespect me, and maybe that mattered. Maybe that’s all that mattered.

On the fourth day, the sun shot through the window, but it was a different kind of light—a lonely light, a sad light. I have major co-dependence issues and need to see a shrink. The photograph glowed on the mantel, vivid and bright, still standing next to that hideous vase. Of all the things that remained, why did it have to be this pointless china? The rest of the apartment faded to white. The sofa was gone, the bed frame, the nightstands, the TV cabinet, the TV, the dining table and chairs, all missing. The only item left was Ryan’s toothbrush, which stood slanted in a cup on the bathroom sink beside my toiletries. I put on the kettle, but it wouldn't start, and I remembered it hadn't started the day before either. Have I paid my electricity bills? I wanted to make toast, but I noticed the bread had become mouldy, and I couldn’t find the toaster anyway. Everything that sustained me was disappearing.

Nima floated near the surface, her colour faded from orange to sallow yellow. I poured in some fish flakes, but she didn’t budge. I tapped the bowl, and she finally moved.

I held my head from a throbbing headache and bumped into the kitchen table and stumbled over the mat. I opened the cupboard to retrieve some Panadol, but the shelves were empty, stripped of the things that once soothed me. I looked outside, but there wasn’t a single sign of life—not even a car, not even the bench by the park. I questioned whether there was ever a bench. I was sure I’d sat there with Ryan eating pistachio-flavoured ice cream from a paper cup. I stared at the traffic light by the intersection, and not once did the lights change. I can’t go back to Ryan just because I am lonely and losing my mind. That would be selfish.

The pigeons had vanished, too, and the crows that had once haunted the oak tree were nowhere to be seen. A flicker of anger at Ryan came through: How could he just ghost me, as if I’d never mattered? It’s not as though I left him for someone else, or even really left him—I just couldn’t be romantic anymore, and now he’s abandoned me completely. I sat at the table, phone in hand, and typed an upset message: ‘You’re punishing me for being honest. I needed you as my friend, and you just disappeared. Did you ever care about me at all?’ I waited for a message, a call, or even an email to let me know he was listening, but I received nothing. I remembered my friend Tala telling me about this guy she’d dated and how he just dropped off the planet and never bothered to explain why. Men these days are so weak. I couldn’t sleep that night. I kept wondering if our bond was just an illusion, whether the love and friendship he showed me were conditional. I recalled the time he confessed to making out with his co-worker while we were dating and how I forgave him in light of the fact that I wasn’t as present as he needed me to be and how I made up for it by booking us a one-week trip to Sri Lanka. Was I stupid? Is he seeing her now? It’s my fault. Eventually, I fell into a broken sleep, full of half-waking moments, dreams that slipped away as soon as I reached for them, the sheets twisting around my legs like ropes.

On the fifth morning, I woke to a world nearly erased. The framed photograph of us remained sharp and bright by that grotesque vase. I wanted to smash them both. The kitchen was unfamiliar, the edges of things vague, the world outside piling with dead leaves. Who the hell does he think he is? How could I let his silence affect me this much? He’s probably banging that chick! Do I blame him? You snooze you lose. For a moment, I thought I saw Ryan again, lying beneath the oak tree—the same one we used to watch morph into all kinds of godheads while we tripped on mushrooms. I opened the window and called his name, but the sound fell flat. The shape of what I thought was him scattered, tumbling away until there was nothing left but faded grass.

I sat at the table, arms folded. I listened to the hush while staring at our photo in the frame, when I understood, at last: Ryan is dead, his ashes in the vase. 

By Maryam Imogen Ghouth

This story is the winner of the American Writers Review Award 2025, San Fedele Press. It was inspired by the passing of my dear friend Talal and shaped by an exercise on merging dual plots into a single narrative, taught by the wonderful Alice LaPlante, award-winning author and creative writing teacher.