The rooftop hasn’t changed.
Same rusted railing. Same water tank with the faded red paint peeling like dry skin. The chai stall downstairs still leaves behind the smell of cardamom every evening. Even the moonlight feels like it remembers.
But she hasn’t come tonight. Again.
Every night is different, but somehow, still the same.
I still walk up at 10:07. Not because I hope anymore.
It’s just habit now. Or maybe something softer than habit.
Earlier, I came for the breeze.
Then, for the conversations.
And then, for her.
She used to show up in loose T-shirts, sometimes with a steel mug of tea, sometimes with nothing but silence. We never sat too close. Just enough. She talked. About stars. About her cat. About the way she hated sudden goodbyes because they left no room for sadness to breathe.
I didn’t say much.
Not because I had nothing to say, but because her voice made silence feel like it belonged.
And then, one day, she just stopped coming.
No message. No explanation.
Some absences don’t owe you closure.
Still, I go up. Every night.
I look at the sky like it might hand me a reason.
I count the stars.
To keep my eyes busy. To keep my thoughts from circling the same memory too long.
Tonight I reached 5137.
Might’ve counted myself twice.
Hard to tell these days where the waiting ends, and I begin.
I stayed a little longer. Just in case.
Just in case tonight is the night she returns, casually, saying something like,
“I knew you’d be here.”
But all I hear is a scooter coughing to life somewhere down the street.
So I breathe. I stand. I turn to leave.
Every night is different.
But I still wait.
Counting stars.
Naming each one after the way she made the silence feel full.