Rafe had never been good at dealing with loss.

He knew how to destroy, how to bend people until they broke under the weight of his love. But being left? That was something he didn’t know how to handle.

Now, the house felt empty. The bed was cold. The air was thick with the absence of you. He kept expecting to hear your laugh echo through the halls, to smell your perfume lingering in the sheets—but all that remained was silence.

You weren’t answering your phone anymore. He called, he texted, he begged—until the reality of it all sunk in. You were gone.

Why did you leave when he was still drowning in you? He didn’t understand.

Your scent was fading, slipping through his fingers like the love you once gave so freely. He swore he could still feel the ghost of your lips on his, the honey-sweet taste now turned to poison.

His life had turned empty without you. Everything was numb. The whispers of your presence haunted him—your smile, your warmth, the way you looked at him like he was worth saving. But you were gone. And now, he wasn’t sure if he wanted to be saved anymore.

She left. And she took his heart with her.

Rafe stood abruptly, his breath ragged as he ran a hand through his hair. Every inch of this house, every damn thing in it, was a painful reminder of you. Your coffee cup still sat on the counter from the last morning you spent here, lipstick staining the rim, untouched. He hadn’t moved it. He couldn’t.

His jaw clenched as his chest heaved, a desperate, ugly kind of ache clawing its way up his throat. His fingers curled into fists. He wanted to scream, to punch a hole through the walls, to do anything that would make this unbearable feeling go away.

But nothing would.

Because you weren’t coming back.

He stumbled over to the nightstand, yanking open the drawer, pulling out the polaroids he took of you—laughing in the sun, lying on his chest, staring at him with eyes full of nothing but love.

But she left.

And since then, all he had were tears.