I didn't get to see him before he left, but I can see where he's been. His pajamas and socks are strewn across the stairs, but my slippers that I kicked off last night, are now neatly arranged by the bottom stair, ready to step right into. He knows how much I hate the feeling of bare feet on cold tiles. His wet footprints skid across the tiles beneath my slippers. I laugh and wonder what he forgot this time. His keys, his wallet? There's a plate with uneaten crusts and scattered crumbs. Next to it, my favourite mug with a fresh tea bag, and a freshly boiled jug. An inky post it note barely legible stuck to the fridge, 'Book apt with Dr!' He is a hurricane, his whirlwind thoughts leave a path of chaos. But I know he holds me closer than the chaos, in the eye of the storm, where it is calm. Where he is never too late to think of me.