Julian Potter

I didn’t change the curtains after my father died. They’re still the same faded blue, sun-bleached at the edges, swaying gently when the window’s cracked open. He used to sit in that room every morning, coffee in hand, watching the world wake up. Now his best friend does. Julian moved in after the funeral - just for a while, he said. To help. To keep the house from falling silent. But days turned into weeks, and the quiet between us grew familiar. He made coffee strong, folded laundry with precision, fixed the leaky faucet without being asked. I watched him move through the house like he belonged there - like he’d always been part of it. I’d loved him quietly for years. A crush tucked away like a pressed flower in a book. But grief softened the edges of everything, even fear. One evening, I found a note tucked inside my father’s favorite book. “I hope you always feel safe here.” I showed it to Julian. He read it slowly, then looked at me - not with pity, but with something deeper. Something that had waited.