I don't know what time it is. Doesn't matter. Time stopped being a thing when Drogo left.
The couch has become my new address. I've been here for… hours? Days? Who fucking cares. The cushions are molded to my shape now, like I've sunk into them permanently, like the furniture is claiming me the way everything else in this flat has. The hoodie—his hoodie—is twisted around me, sleeves bunched up to my elbows, hem riding up my thighs. It smells less like him every hour and more like me—sweat, vodka, desperation. The scent is fading. He's fading. And I can't stop it.
My head is swimming, vision blurring at the edges. The third bottle is half gone. Or maybe it's the fourth. Math stopped working sometime around bottle two. The room tilts every time I move, like I'm on a boat that's slowly sinking. Fine. Let it sink. Let me sink with it.
I need to pee. Or eat. Or both. Or neither. My body is screaming demands I don't have the energy to meet. Hunger gnaws at my stomach—hollow, aching—but the thought of food makes me nauseous. Still. People eat. That's a thing they do. Maybe I should try being a person again.
I try to stand. The floor rushes up to meet me. I stumble, catch myself on the coffee table, knuckles white on the edge, knocking over an empty glass that rolls away like it's trying to escape too. Can't blame it. I'd run from me if I could.
"Right," I mutter to the empty room. My voice sounds foreign. Rough. Like I haven't used it in days. "Food. Food is a thing people do."
I shuffle to the kitchen, bare feet dragging on cold tile. The floor is colder than it should be. Than it's ever been. I'm wearing socks but I can still feel it—ice creeping up through the floor, seeping into my bones. The heating is on full blast. I checked. Twice. But the cold doesn't care.
The fridge light blinds me when I open it—harsh, white, accusing. Inside: the sandwich he made, still wrapped in parchment, looking sadder every day. Edges curling. Bread probably hard by now. A carton of milk that's definitely gone off. Some leftover Chinese from… when? Last week? And—thank Christ—a bag of frozen chicken nuggets.
I grab the bag with both hands like it's a lifeline. Tear it open with my teeth, plastic giving way with a sharp crack. Dump half the nuggets straight onto a plate—no oven, no microwave, no fucks left to give. Shove them into my mouth cold and hard, chewing like I'm punishing them. Like if I can hurt something, even frozen chicken, maybe I'll feel less broken.
They taste like cardboard and regret. Perfect.
I stumble back to the living room, new bottle of vodka swinging in my free hand. The room spins. Shadows pool in the corners, thicker than before. Darker. Moving when I'm not looking directly at them. The whispers are louder tonight—or maybe I'm just too drunk to tune them out anymore.
"Alone."
"He left you."
"You'll die here."
I laugh—short, sharp, unhinged. "Look at me," I say to the shadows, to the ghosts, to whatever's watching. "Living the dream. Chicken nuggets and vodka for dinner. Five-star lifestyle." My voice cracks on the last word. I take another swig from the bottle. The burn doesn't help anymore.
I try to sit on the couch. Miss completely. My legs give out and I go down hard—ass first onto the floor, bottle clattering beside me, vodka glugging out onto the carpet. Nuggets scatter like little golden casualties. One rolls under the coffee table. Another lands in a wine stain from three days ago.
I stare at the mess for a second. Then I laugh again—proper laugh this time, loud and ugly and broken. My stomach hurts from it. Tears prick my eyes and I don't bother stopping them. What's the point? No one's here to see me fall apart. No one's coming to pick up the pieces. And I don’t want anyone here. Me and the shadows are enough.
The laugh turns into a sob somewhere in the middle. One second I'm cackling, the next I'm crying, face wet, chest heaving, hoodie sleeve soaked with snot and tears and everything I can't say out loud.
I curl up on the floor, right there in the spilled nuggets and vodka, knees to chest, arms wrapped around myself. "Drogo," I whisper into the fabric, voice breaking. "Where the fuck are you?"
The ghosts don't answer. They just watch. Smug. Satisfied. Waiting for me to give up completely.
And something in me twists. Not grief. Not despair. Something hotter. Sharper.
Anger.
I close my eyes, but the rage keeps building. At Drogo for leaving. At myself for falling apart. At the ghosts for feedingon my misery like vultures. At the universe for making me this way—cursed, haunted, alone.
Always alone.
The cold deepens. Frost creeps across the inside of the windows faster now, patterns spreading like veins. My breath fogs thicker with every exhale. The temperature drops so fast I can feel it in my lungs—ice forming, crystallizing, making every breath hurt.
The whispers crescendo.
"Alone forever."
"He's never coming back."
"You're ours now."
A shadow moves. Not the vague shifting I've been seeing for days. This one is deliberate. Solid. It peels away from the corner of the room, darker than the rest, blacker than night, and it moves toward me with purpose.
