We Could’ve Been Something
Marianne’s name faded, the ink still brave: “Endless love, see you down the road.” The words glowed like a candle that refuses midnight.
She played Cohen on repeat the night the text came, four words that closed a chapter. He’s not coming back. Then that gravel‑light baritone.
The room swallowed the syllables like incense, curling velvet shadows around the coffee cups. Outside, Montreal snow refused to commit, half‑rain, half‑memory. She imagined Leonard hunched over a notebook across the kitchen table, monk’s fedora tipped, sketching mercy into margins. He’d glance up, eyes sparkling with mischief as if he’d just keyed a sacred joke into the universe.
“We kill the flame to see the stars,” he’d whisper. When the needle lifted, silence wore his suit. She folded the yellowed postcard that always lived between the liner notes—Marianne’s name faded, the ink still brave: “Endless love, see you down the road.” The words glowed like a candle that refuses midnight.
She breathed in cool cedar and felt the day exhale—less lonely, momentarily redeemed.
"We could’ve been something..."
Not a question. A fact. A bruise.
The song ended.
She hit rewind.
Sometimes healing isn’t loud.
It’s just a voice that stays when nothing else does.
