Just the dull, empty echo of a house that felt less like a home and more like a fucking mausoleum.
He got up, dragging his hands down his face, the weight in his chest heavier than it had been the night before. It was a different kind of exhaustion—one that settled deep, one that made even breathing feel like too much effort.
And then he saw it.
Her shirt.
His fucking Henley, the one she had worn so perfectly, draped over the hamper like a silent reminder of what he’d lost.
He stared at it, his breathing uneven, his fists clenching at his sides.
It wasn’t just the shirt.
It was everything.
The coffee cup in the sink, the one she had used more than her own.
The bobby pin on the bathroom counter, sitting there like a goddamn ghost.
The half-burned candle on the kitchen counter, the one she had insisted smelled like home, the scent of warm amber and vanilla still lingering in the air.
The book on his nightstand, still dog-eared to the page she had stopped reading the night before she left.
She was gone.
But her echoes were haunting him.
Still no word.
Still no text.
Still nothing.
By noon, he couldn’t take it anymore. He grabbed his truck keys and left, driving aimlessly through town, past all the places that reminded him of her.
The marina, where she had met him that first day, looking like a fucking dream.
The bookstore, where she had traced her fingers over the spines of novels like they held the answers to the universe.
The coffee shop, where she had stolen sips of his drink, smirking when he pretended to be pissed.
The beach, where she had walked beside him in the moonlight, the waves lapping at her ankles, her hand wrapped so tightly around his that it felt like she never wanted to let go.
Everywhere he went, she was there.
But in reality?
She was nowhere.
Day Three
He stayed at the dock all day.
Didn’t eat.
Didn’t sleep.
Just sat there, staring at the water, listening to the waves as they crashed against the pilings.
