The Empty Room

There is a room in every heart, one that cannot be seen or touched, but its presence is undeniable.

It is a space where things come and go - some of them will linger, others will leave, often without warning.

The room changes over time, its contents are ever-shifting, but there are gaps, spaces where something is always missing.

For years, the room had been left undisturbed. The door was quietly shut, and the walls were familiar, comforting even. The room was full in a way that made sense. 

But then, unexpectedly, there was a knock at the door. It was tentative, unsure. Something was there.

The door was cracked open and all of a sudden, there was a flash of light, streaming through the gap, a warm hand reaching in.

The room was coming to life again. 

It felt full. The walls hummed with energy, the shadows less cold. The door was edging open further, letting something in - the warmth spilling into the quiet, something that hadn’t been there for a long time.

For a while, it lingered. Like sunlight through half-closed blinds, creeping in, holding the space in a hush. The subtle beauty of its features revealed itself, like dust suspended in its soft glow.

All focus shifted, the brightness blinding, rendering everything else insignificant.

But nothing stays forever, and eventually, the room is left alone once more. The door is open but the light is gone.

At first, the silence is soft, barely noticeable. But the longer the absence lingers, the more the room seems to expand, like the emptiness is stretching, reaching into corners that used to be filled with light. The warmth from before is slipping away, a quiet, consuming chill taking its place.

And then there is the waiting. Waiting for the knock, for a tap on the door, for something to fill the space once more.

But the waiting becomes heavy. The walls seem to close in, suffocating the breath that once came so easily. There is a strange tension, a soft pull at the chest, urging closer to the open door. A longing to linger at the threshold, to release some quiet call, an invitation, unspoken but not unfelt, into the waiting world.

Yet, there is also a resistance, an understanding that the door can’t stay open. Sometimes, it’s better to leave the room to itself, to let it stay empty.

And yet, the temptation is always there: to call out, to reach through the cracks, hoping that the space will be filled again. The door remains open, quietly and without ceremony. But nothing comes.

And with each stretch of silence, the space begins to settle again. The room returns to its own rhythm, although not quite as it was, with each beat more measured, more deliberate.

The trick, of course, is to learn how to sit with the space as it is. To acknowledge that not every empty corner needs to be filled, not every pause needs to be broken. The room does not always require a visitor.

There is a certain peace in the quiet, in the emptiness. The room can exist without needing to be occupied, even if this can be easily forgotten. The shadows are not always a sign of something missing; sometimes, they are just the room, finding its own form, creating its own shape.

And as the walls settle, the door becomes less urgent. The space no longer feels cold. It becomes its own entity - neither full nor empty - but simply existing in its own way.

And perhaps, that is enough.