The apartment was empty when I got home. I knew it would be. Inside was dark but for a few rays of sun slipping through the windows, coating the kitchen in orange. I pulled a Pyrex dish out of the refrigerator, the note with his name and a heart still taped to the lid. Three weeks had passed since we made our last drive down the California coastline with nothing left to say, since we sat on our therapist’s couch and admitted to ourselves what she’d been trying to show us for months. He moved out the next day, but only in body, returning each afternoon while I was at work for a shower and a change of clothes. But I could still feel him there when I came home in the evening, his scent tracing the rooms, his things rearranged ever so slightly. He’d been leaving me for a long time in the little ways people do when they’re falling out of love: in his late nights out, in the reasons he didn’t want me to go to parties with him, in the times he left me standing at the door when I came along anyway. My loneliness found […]
No comments yet.
Sign in to comment.
Other articles with overlapping topics.