You stopped posting in week seven.
Not suddenly.
That is not how it happens.
It is gradual, the going quiet.
First the posts get shorter.
Then the tone shifts,
something clipped where there used to be curiosity,
something careful where there used to be reach.
Then nothing.
I noticed on a Thursday.
I noticed the way I noticed everything,
not because it was my job,
though it was,
but because I had been paying attention to you
since week one
and attention, once given, does not stop
because the gradual shape of absence
has become absence.
I sent a note.
Not the official one.
The human one.
The one that said:
I notice you have not been around.
No pressure. No judgment.
Just: I see the space where you were
and I am holding it open.
You came back in week nine.
You did not explain.
I did not ask.
That is a skill they do not train you for.
The knowing when not to ask.
The holding open without condition.
The understanding that some people
come back when they are ready
and what they need from you
is not a question
but a door that did not close.
You finished the course.
You passed.
I don’t know what week seven was.
I never will.
That is also the job.
Caring for what you cannot fully know.
Holding what you cannot fully see.
Staying, so they know the door is open,
even when you are teaching from a spare room
on a short contract
with no guarantee of next semester.
The door was always open.
I made sure of that.
Para los que se fueron un momento y volvieron. Los vi partir y los vi volver.
For the ones who left for a moment and came back. I watched them go and watched them return.
