Empty.
The curtains were drawn. Sunlight poured in, fell on that empty bed. The blanket was neatly folded, perfectly arranged, like no one had ever slept there.
I walked to the closet.
Pulled it open.
Empty.
Those clothes, those shoes, those few things she'd brought from home—
All gone.
I stood in front of that empty closet, felt something hollow out in my chest.
She really left.
She left nothing behind.
I turned around, stared at that room.
The bed was empty, the desk was empty, even the curtains she rarely opened now just hung there quietly, like nothing had happened.
My gaze fell on the corner of the bed.
On the floor, something was there.
I walked over, picked it up.
A sweater. Gray, very soft. The cuff had a small stain from when she got it dirty in the garden that day.
I brought it to my nose.
Her scent.
Faint, like cotton dried in sunlight, like jasmine in the garden, like that clean smell after she showered.
I closed my eyes.
That scent was still there.
But she wasn't.
I drove her away.
Suddenly, rage surged up from my chest.
What the hell was I doing? She left, and I'm standing here smelling her sweater like some pervert, like an idiot, like an abandoned dog.
"Fuck!"
I shouted, threw the sweater hard on the floor, then punched the wall.
The wall cracked.
My knuckles split, blood ran down the back of my hand, dripped on the floor.
I stared at that sweater.
