I sit on the edge of the bed, my hands limp in my lap, my eyes fixed on the balcony doors. Morning light spills through the glass—pale, cold, indifferent. It pools across the marble floor in wide, silent rectangles, stretching toward me like fingers trying to reach.
The ache in my chest is still there. A dull, persistent throb lodged behind my ribs. Fainter now than when I first woke up, but present. Always present. A ghost that refuses to leave.
My hand moves slowly, pressing against my heart. Beneath my palm, it beats too fast. Uneven.
So that was a dream. A bad dream. But it felt so real.
His voice, low and warm, curling around my name like smoke. His smile, soft and familiar—the smile I used to wake up to. The way he looked at me like I was nothing. Like I was already a memory he was ready to forget. The way he walked away without looking back, his hand in someone else's, the door closing behind him with a sound like a tomb sealing shut.
