I Traced the Shape of My Wife’s Name in the Dust on the Window

Dear Delyara, The industrial dust in this room is so thick it leaves a grey film over everything within six hours. At 5:00 AM, I reached out my finger and traced her name in the grime on the side window pane, looking through the clear letters at the dark, cold rain falling on the gravel outside. It felt like a pathetic, childish gesture of desperation. I am trying to build a multi-property portfolio and an elite luxury house to give her a legacy, yet the immediate reality is that I am leaving her alone in a cold bed every night while I sit in a dirty box writing her name in filth. I wiped the letters away with my palm before the manager arrived, turning her name back into a blank, grey smudge, feeling like an absolute fraud.