Behind Closed Doors, a poem by: Anika Taiwade

 Behind Closed Doors

by: Anika Taiwade

The locker room is always silent after practice. I can only ever hear the sound of shoelaces tightening and water bottles snapping shut. I stare at my laces, like they’re going to say something to me. Nothing, though, so I just tie and untie them again. 

I hear them laughing outside the door. Two voices. His and someone else’s.

They always leave together now. Always joking, always half-soulder-bumping lke it means nothing. Maybe it does mean nothing. Maybe it means everything. I wouldn’t know.

I sit there longer than I need to, pretending I’m still catching my breath. Really, I’m just not ready to see him glance at me with that look, the one that doesn’t stay long anymore.

He used to wait for me, used to hang back and walk slower just so that we’d leave together. We never talked about it. It was never official, but it became a routine, naturally and quietly. The kind of constant in your life that you don’t realize you missed until it was gone. 

I remember when he sat next to me during lunch even  though there was space with his friends. When he passed me his earbud like it was no big deal, he then asked me what I was listening to without pressing play.

Maybe I waited too long for him to press play. Maybe I missed the cue. He looked at me like he had things to say often, but I pretended I didn’t notice. But silence is a door that closes on its own. Now his doors are open for someone else, and I can only peak through the windows. 

I finally stood up. My reflection in the scratched and rusted metal lockers doesn’t look much different, but I feel smaller than before. The hallway is empty now, but I can hear the echo from their laughter, already far down the stairs. I stayed here, though, packing up what’s left of nothing.