I open the refrigerator.
The light is harsh. The bulb seems brighter, more violent than it used to be. Or maybe it is the same, and the emptiness of the space makes it feel harsher. There is nothing inside that isn’t depressing. A carton of milk I bought in a fit of grocery store panic. A loaf of bread. A few jars of condiments—crusty, solitary objects. No labeled Tupperware. No foil-wrapped plates of leftovers she’d save in case I dragged some colleague home or had a midnight craving.
I never thanked her. I never noticed the refrigerator brimming with her attention until only my milk remained.
I close the refrigerator and stand there for a moment, my hand still on the handle, waiting for something. For her to appear in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel, asking what I want for dinner.
She doesn’t appear.
Of course she doesn’t. She hasn’t been here for months. Why do I keep expecting her to be here?
Because this is her place. This is where shebelongs.
The bedroom is worse.
There is nothing for me here. There hasn’t been for months. Still, my body carries me forward, toward the space where she once lay beside me in the dark. I find myself reaching for a ghost, my fingers twitching for the contact of her skin, only to brush clumsily against dry air.
The bed is made. Wrongly.
Before, the sheets were smooth, the pillows fluffed, the duvet pulled to its proper place on the mattress. Now the bed holds nothing of her. No dent where her head had rested. No wrinkle where her body had curved. Just flat fabric and empty space.
A hotel bed.
I sit on the edge of the bed. The mattress is firm. It’s a good mattress. I paid for it.
She left.
Sheactuallyleft.
I lie back on the bed and stare at the ceiling. There’s a small crack in the plaster near the corner. I’ve never noticed it before. How long has it been there? How many things have I not noticed?
I think about the first time I brought her here. She had stood in the doorway of this bedroom, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes moving slowly across the walls, the windows, the closet. She looked… grateful. That’s what I thought. Grateful.
Now I wonder if she was already calculating how to leave.
I reach for the remote. My fingers are cold, the skin around the nails dry and peeling. I need a noise to pierce through the silence. The silence, which has grown on the walls of the house thick and furry, like mold on a piece of forgotten fruit.
The screen flickers on. The noise crashes in—bright, vacuous, jabbering about weather I don’t care about and sports I never followed. A car commercial blares. The sound doesn’t fill the emptiness. It claws at it. Invasive and shrill.
I switch it off.
The silence rushes back, thicker than before, punishing me for daring to fill it.
I check my phone.
The screen glows. The light is cold, neon blue, the colour of electronic screens and loneliness. No notifications. No missed calls. Just the time, glowing in the dim room.
I open our old chat thread and scroll. Her messages stack one after another, each a small errand wrapped in formal distance.
Picked up your dry cleaning.
I couldn’t find the ingredients for the dish you wanted. I’ll check tomorrow.
Will you be late today?
Her messages are cordial, bloodless things. I scroll past them quickly. I don’t need to see them again. I remember. I never felt the need to reply. I remember turning the phone face-down, silencing her with a flick of my wrist, letting her inquiries hang in the air. I didn’t need to answer. I knew she would be there when I got home, because she was always there, because her presence was a given.
I throw the phone on the bed.
