James still sets out two mugs in the morning.

One for himself. One for you.

Even though it’s been weeks now—long enough for the sheets to stop smelling like your shampoo, long enough for Remus to stop giving him that look—he still pours tea into both. One goes cold. Always yours.

He doesn’t tell anyone about the memory that haunts him, the one that happened right before everything fell apart.

It was raining that day, and you were standing in the doorway of his bedroom, wrapped in one of his sweaters like always. You looked back at him—just a glance, nothing dramatic—and there was something in your eyes.

The glimmer in your eyes is saying you wanna leave. James felt it hit him then, deep in the ribs. You were already halfway gone.

He'd kissed you that night like he could make you change your mind. Like he could convince your body to forget your heart wanted to leave. But the kiss felt like an echo, didn’t it?

Now, months later, James stands shirtless in front of someone else. She’s pretty. She laughs easily. He thinks she might actually like him.

But he can’t do it.

He doesn't wannaget undressed for a new person all over again, can’t pretend a new set of shoulders could replace the ones he traced in the dark. He can’t kiss someone else's neck and pretend it was yours instead.

“Sorry,” he mutters, voice rough, eyes glued to the wall like it’ll explain something.

She leaves, politely. She understands. People always understand when it’s heartbreak. They just don’t know who he's mourning.

And James? James still sleeps on one side of the bed, leaving the other side cold and quiet, waiting for a ghost with your laugh.

Because he didn’t want to let go. Because part of him still hasn't.