Despite all the struggles, despite the countless thorns that left you bleeding, you loved him.

The things he put you through were far from healthy, leaving you drained and feeling trapped. Yet, in the silence of late nights, you lay awake, wondering if you ever cross his mind the way he crosses yours.

Do the memories haunt him the same way they haunt you? The naked dances you shared on the same bed that later drowned your sobs after the breakup—does he think about them too? Does he miss your care, knowing there was no one else he ever opened up to the way he did with you?

You haven’t seen him since that night he stormed out, claiming this wasn’t good for either of you. You begged—actually begged him—to stay, to try, to work things out. But his mind seemed so fixated on his own traumas, his constant pain, that he didn’t seem to hear you.

He never even came back to pick up his things, as though leaving them behind was some form of deliberate torture. The ghost of his presence was everywhere, like salt rubbed in the wound, over and over. The mug he always used, is now dusty in the cupboard. His favorite cushions were still arranged just the way he liked. The house wasn’t empty—it was filled with memories of him.

Taking another drag from your cigarette—another habit you’d picked up after he left—you stared at your phone. An hour ago, he’d left you a single voice message. The fear had you shaking, but your trembling hands finally gave in. Slowly, you pressed play, letting the room fill with his voice one more time.