I stayed where I was, the mug heavy between my palms, its steam fading. My shoulders sagged, my eyes fixed on the door that stayed closed. My fingers slowly tightened around the cup.
Dinnertime. The apartment was empty, again. His jacket was gone from the hook, his shoes missing from their usual place by the door. The shower hadn’t run, the faint trace of his soap never drifted down the hall. No music from the study. No clatter of pans in the kitchen. Just silence, stretched so tight it pressed against my skin.
I set one plate in front of me. The other side of the table was bare. Each bite was slow, reluctant, heavy in the quiet. Normally this was when we’d talk, his voice filling the space, or when he’d nudge me with some sarcastic comment that made me laugh.
Tonight, there was nothing to answer but the scrape of my own fork. I paused often, listening for the sound of a key in the door. Nothing.
After I cleaned up, I lingered in the kitchen, fingers tapping the counter, unwilling to walk into the stillness of the living room. His glass sat untouched in the sink. The clock ticked too loud. Finally, I picked up my book, the one I’d been reading while he sat across from me with his own.
Usually when I looked up, he was there, glancing at me over the page. Tonight the chair stayed empty, the dent in the cushion already fading. The lamp lit only one side of the room.
I stared at my phone. Opened his contact. Closed it. Opened it again. My fingers hovered, useless. What would I even say?
Dinner’s cold. So is everything else?
I set the phone down.
I let the book fall shut and hugged a pillow to my chest. The fabric smelled faintly like the laundry soap he insisted on using. My arms locked tighter around it, as if the pressure might hold me together. My breathing went shallow, each inhale clipped, as if the air itself was harder to take in. The silence pressed in, sharper than any fight could have been.
I blinked hard, refusing to let the tears come. My throat burned anyway. He was pushing me out without ever saying the words.
The quiet pressed in, tight and close. I looked at the door, at the room that used to feel like ours. My voice was barely there when I said it. “Fine... I get it. I’ll go.”
Playing Safe
Liam
My pulse was still hammering from what I’d seen on the printer, proof she was already planning her exit.
I can’t stay here.
Not with the thought of her leaving me playing on a loop.
I didn’t stop moving once I hit the hallway. The door clicked behind me, and suddenly the walls felt miles away.
The air was sharp in my lungs.
I’m outside?
I walked, letting the city move under my feet. Block after block. If the light was green I crossed the street. Turned when they were red. A horn blared somewhere behind me, a couple arguedoutside a deli. I walked past restaurants, bars, subway stairs, buskers, policemen.
Cold needled at my ears. Now, they were burning.
I need to warm up.
When I finally stopped walking, I was standing in front of a bookstore. Figures. Of all places I could end up, it had to be here.
Reading had always been my thing, and lately, it had become ours. Me and Claire, side by side after dinner, books open, silence comfortable. Now just the sight of the storefront felt like someone had pressed a bruise.
Inside, the smell of paper and coffee wrapped around me. I drifted through the aisles, pulling random titles, not really seeing them until I found myself in the cooking section. My fingers traced over a book of recipes, bright photographs of dishes I would cook if I had someone to share my meals with.
At the register, something caught my eye, a display stacked high with books on stars, stargazing, dark sky parks. I picked one up, then another. A smile tugged at the corner of my mouth before I could stop it. I bought two.
My stomach growled. I checked my watch, seven. We’d usually be finishing dinner by now, clearing the plates, pulling out books. Instead, I crossed to the diner on the corner, neon light flickering above the door. The thought of food didn’t pull me; the noise and the bodies did. A place to disappear.
I slid into a booth, opened the constellation book, and let the noise swallow me.
I pulled out my phone.
