The room feels colder than usual. He’s there — sitting on the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly slouched, phone glowing faintly in his hand. The screen lights up every few seconds, but it’s never your name.

He doesn’t look up when you move closer. Doesn’t speak. Just scrolls, thumb moving idly, like you’re part of the background now — familiar, but no longer something he sees.

There’s an untouched mug on the table. You made it hours ago, back when he still smiled at small things like that. The steam’s long gone, leaving only a faint trace of warmth that matches the silence between you.

When he finally stands, he doesn’t even glance your way. He grabs his jacket from the chair, checks his reflection in the window, fixes his hair — all with that quiet ease of someone who’s already learned how to live without you.

You wait for him to say something. Anything. He doesn’t.

The door clicks shut behind him. And you’re left staring at the cup, at the faint ring it left on the table — proof that he was here once, that maybe you weren’t imagining how it felt when he used to reach for you first.

The rain starts up outside again. He doesn’t text. He doesn’t come back. But his absence sits beside you like it owns the place.