His mug was still in the sink.
Not washed. Not hidden. Just there, with a faint ring of coffee at the bottom serving as proof he’d existed in my kitchen. The negative space created by his absence.
His sweater was draped over the back of the chair. The one I’d let him keep after he accused me of trying to steal it. It still smelled faintly like his soap and my apartment, which felt unfair.
The guest room doors were both still closed.
Still empty.
I opened one, out of habit more than intention.
White walls. Bare floor. The unopened box labeled BED FRAME staring back at me like an accusation.
I stood there for a second, then closed the door again.
I didn’t delete anything. I didn’t unpack anything. I didn’t pack anything away.
I washed the mug, folded the sweater, and the photos of him I’d snagged with my phone stayed where they were, but I scrolled past them faster. When it came to the shots I’d taken with my camera, I printed a couple of those out and taped them to the wall.
It felt productive.
Which was, in retrospect, a lie.
I could’ve slept in.
I didn’t.
I woke up early with that jittery, over-caffeinated feeling that usually meant I was already behind even when I wasn’t. The week spread out in front of me like a grid I’d convinced myself I could conquer.
Two assignments for school.
A shoot with René.
Helping Noor prep for her portfolio review.
Three calls with Frankie about album concepts.
Plus the edits I’d ignored all week because I’d been pretending I was allowed to be a person.
I made coffee. Then more coffee.
I told myself it was fine.
That this was what I wanted.
That I liked being busy.
Which was true.
It was also the problem.
René gaveme more responsibility Monday morning.
Not a promotion. Not praise. Just… more.
More decisions. More expectations. More quiet assumptions that I would handle it because I always had.
He didn’t ask how I was.
