Will You Buy?

She opened the door the way people do when they’ve lived through too many endings slowly, without ceremony. Hair in a loose knot, her face bare of performance. Behind her, the house hummed with old sounds: the whir of the fan, the clink of steel against ceramic, the faint splash of water from the sink.

I stood there for a second longer than I should have.

And then I said it.

“I have come to sell tears. Will you buy?”

It wasn’t a metaphor when I thought of it. It was just a feeling. A sentence that sat in my mouth all morning like an unswallowed pill. I had imagined saying it with a smile, maybe even a laugh. But when the moment came, it dropped from my mouth like glass.

She didn’t ask what I meant.

She never did. That was her. She always waited till I was ready to explain myself, or not.

She just moved aside, silently. The invitation to enter wasn’t warm, but it wasn’t cold either. It was familiar—a kind of silent truce.

I walked in.

Same living room. Same cushions. The same faded green curtains that we once laughed about buying from the wrong shop.

Except everything felt a few inches further away.

I sat down on the floor instead of the sofa this time.

She brought water. Placed it between us.

And then finally, she spoke. “You don’t have to do this.”

I looked up at her. And said, “I know.”

We were friends once, not in the diluted, social media way, but in the kind of way that feels stitched into your day. I had her name saved in my phone without a last name. Just her. We could talk about anything: books, childhood, bad music, things we were ashamed of, things we hadn’t told anyone else. We built something together. Quietly. Without realising how much.

Until one day, I realised I had fallen in love with her.

Not in a planned way. Not in a sudden, dramatic moment either. It just... deepened. Like when a shadow grows longer, and you only notice when it reaches your feet.

I told her. Not to force anything. Just to be honest.

She was quiet. Thoughtful. Gentle in her refusal.

“I love you,” she had said. “But not like that.”

We kept talking after that. At first, it was okay. There was awkwardness, sure, but the friendship held. We said we’d move past it. That love didn’t have to end anything.

But time is sneaky.

Somewhere in the middle of casual conversations and shared playlists, my hope grew teeth.

I waited for signs. Interpreted silences. Held on to memories like they were promises.

And she… she started pulling away. Not because she was cruel. But because she was honest.

She stopped texting first. Then stopped replying fast. Then one day said, “Maybe let’s not talk for a bit.”

That was months ago.

And now, I was here. Not to win her back. Not to confess again.

But to return something.

“I wrote things,” I said, pulling a folded sheet from my bag. “Not poems. Just... what I couldn’t tell you without making it heavier for both of us.”

She looked at the paper, but didn’t take it.

“You don’t have to carry this either,” I added. “I just didn’t know where else to put it.”

She exhaled slowly, like someone who has already cried in private.

“Why now?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because it finally feels like it won’t be a betrayal to let go.”

She leaned back, her shoulder brushing the edge of the wall.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” she said.

“I know that,” I replied.

“I was always honest.”

“You were.”

“I just never felt what you felt. And I hated myself for it sometimes.”

I paused. Then told her what I’d never said out loud.

“I didn’t need you to feel it. I just needed the space to feel it myself, without losing you.”

We sat with that sentence for a long time. It didn’t demand a response.

“This thread,” I said, finally, “this friendship... it was love for me. And maybe that was my mistake in letting it become more silent. I kept tying knots where you saw loose ends. And now, even if we try to tie it again, there will be creases. Maybe we won’t talk again after today. Maybe this is it. But I wanted to say it so that it wouldn’t rot inside me.”

She looked at the page again. This time, she reached out. Took it.

Didn’t open it. Just held it between her fingers like something delicate.

“You’re not wrong,” she said.

And then, softer, “Neither am I.”

I stood up.

She didn’t say goodbye.

I didn’t ask for one.

As I turned to leave, I said it again, without drama, without hope, without bitterness.

“I have come to sell tears, will you buy?”

She didn’t answer.

But she didn’t return the letter either.

And that was enough.