Almost

Jazna tells Isaac she’s leaving on a Tuesday morning, while the kitchen is still dim and soft with early light. She waits until the kettle finishes boiling, because she doesn’t want her voice to compete with the noise. Or maybe because she needs those last few seconds to steady herself. “I’m going today,” she says.

Isaac’s hand tightens around the handle of the cupboard. For a moment, it looks like he might say something. His mouth opens just slightly, a breath caught behind his teeth, but then he closes it again. He nods. A small, careful nod, like he’s afraid anything bigger might shake something loose inside him.

The kettle clicks. Neither of them moves. They sit at the table and start sorting through their things. They don’t talk about why. They don’t talk about what comes next. They just… sort.

Jazna picks up a chipped mug. “Yours,” she says, but her voice catches on the word, barely noticeable unless you’re listening for it. Isaac writes it down on a scrap of paper. His handwriting is too neat. He presses the pen harder than he needs to. At one point, the pen slips, leaving a dark streak across the page. He stares at it for a second too long before continuing.

When they reach the framed photo from their first apartment, they both stop. Jazna’s fingers brush the edge of the frame and she inhales sharply, like she’s about to say something. Something real, something honest... but she swallows it back down. “Maybe… leave it,” she says.

Isaac nods again, but this time his jaw tightens. He looks away quickly, as if the photo is too bright to look at directly. They drift into separate rooms. No discussion. No plan. Just instinct.

In the bedroom, Jazna folds her clothes into the suitcase. She smooths each shirt, but her hands tremble once. Just once, before she forces them still. She presses her lips together, holding something in.

In the kitchen, Isaac wipes the counter. Long, straight lines. Over and over. At one point he stops, palms flat on the surface, head bowed. His shoulders rise with a breath that sounds almost like a sob. He steadies himself, straightens, and keeps wiping. They pause at nearly the same moment, though they’re in different rooms.

Jazna sits on the edge of the bed, staring at the half‑packed suitcase. Her eyes shine, but she blinks hard and fast, refusing to let anything fall. Isaac grips the counter again. His knuckles go white. He exhales through his nose, slow and shaky. He presses his tongue to the roof of his mouth, the way he does when he’s trying not to cry. When they meet again in the living room, the air feels heavy.

The photograph sits on the table. Neither reaches for it at first. Finally, Jazna picks it up and holds it longer than she should. Her thumb traces the corner of the frame, a tiny, unconscious gesture. She looks like she might say something. His name, maybe, or “I’m sorry,” or “Do you want this?” She doesn’t. She sets it on the windowsill.

Isaac watches her hand as she pulls away. His own hand twitches, like he almost reaches out to stop her. Almost.

At the door, they stand facing each other. Close enough to feel the warmth of the other person. Far enough not to touch. “Okay,” Jazna whispers. It’s barely a word. Isaac’s throat works. He nods, but his eyes flicker once, like he’s on the edge of saying something he’ll regret or need or both. He doesn’t say it.

She turns. The suitcase wheels clacking across the floor. The door opens. She steps out. The door closes. The latch clicks.

Isaac stands there, staring at the door. His breath shudders once. He forces it steady. Eventually, he walks to the windowsill. The photograph is crooked. He reaches out to straighten it, but his hand hesitates in midair. For a moment, it looks like he might pick it up instead. He doesn’t. He straightens it and lets his hand fall.

Then he stands there in the quiet apartment, the one that still smells faintly like her shampoo and toasted bread, trying to hold himself together in the space where everything inside him wants to break.

Author’s Note:

I am editing this story to include this note because I don’t think it worked quite the way I originally intended, so let me explain.

This story was written as my entry for the Craft Over Catharsis challenge. We were told to prioritize structure, technique, and form over emotional release. People expect the moment where the characters finally scream, cry, or explain their history. For this piece, I challenged myself to step away from traditional exposition and see if a story could be told entirely through body language, physical cues, and of the things left unsaid.

I wanted to see if a story could be held together by its constraints rather than being moved by its catharsis. I tried to focus on the symmetry of Jazna and Isaac’s movements as well as their silence. I deliberately withheld that emotional release to experiment with a different style that leaves the narrative open for your interpretation.

I do have my own idea of exactly what happened and why she is leaving, but I made the conscious choice not to include it. I wanted to see if meaning could emerge from design and control, even when the answers are withheld.

Whether you see this as a tragedy, a necessity, or a temporary pause is entirely dependent on what you bring to the page. There are no wrong answers. I invite you to step into the gaps I’ve left behind and find your own satisfaction in the coherence of the moment itself.

I apologize if it was too confusing to follow or if it felt incomplete. I am just trying to push myself into new realms of writing!

-Sara