The morning was unkind—cold, still, as if something vital had been quietly taken in the night. The kind of chill that doesn’t just touch your skin, but slips into your bones, settling there like a truth you don't want to face. It felt like the soul of the house had gone missing, like the warmth had packed up and left with him. The other side of the king-sized bed remained untouched—flat, cold, an abandoned nest that once held comfort, laughter, quiet 2 a.m. conversations. Now it was just absence in linen form.

You lay curled up, facing the wall, your back turned to the emptiness behind you like that would somehow make it easier to ignore, your eyes fixed on the window. The curtain hadn’t been drawn last night, so morning light poured in, pale and sharp, like it knew too much. A heaviness sat in your chest—regret, heartache, that quiet echo of something you couldn't undo. You wanted to cry again, but your eyes felt scorched from the night before. They'd already given everything they had.

Your eyes burned, not from fresh tears, but from yesterday’s storm—the ones that wouldn’t stop until they drained you dry. You wanted to cry again, just to let something out, but your body was stubborn, emptied of tears but not of grief. Even after the sharp words that still hung like smoke in the corners of the living room- you longed for him this haunting, stupid, persistent feeling. Even after everything, you wanted him. You ached for his arms, for the weight of them around your waist, for the warmth of his breath against the back of your neck. For that soft morning voice, the one he only used before the world fully woke up.

Last night’s argument had been one of the worst. Maybe the worst. The kind that echoes through the rooms long after it ends. Fueled by the weight of too many unspoken things—and the alcohol in his blood. The pub still clinging to him when he stumbled through the door, laughter from earlier now replaced with something bitter. His voice, usually measured and soft, had turned sharp, biting. And when the floodgates opened, they didn’t just open—they broke. He said things. But you hadn’t been innocent either. Your own anger, raw and wounded, had struck back just as hard. The final blow? The door slamming behind him. The night swallowing his figure whole.

He hadn’t texted. No call. Not a single word. Typical. His silence was never quiet—it was punishment, a waiting game, a dare. A way to see if you’d break first, if you’d miss him enough to fold.

A little after nine, you finally peeled yourself off the sheets, desperate for something to distract you from spiraling again. You made your way to the kitchen, still wearing his hoodie—because it was easier than admitting you missed him. The kettle began to hiss, steam curling into the air like a ghost.

And then—you heard it.

The front door unlocking. A turn. A click. Heavy footsteps across the wooden floor, each one sounding like a question. You didn’t move. You just stood there, heart in your throat, breath caught halfway.

He appeared in the doorway like a poem left unfinished—disheveled, eyes heavy, guilt written all over his face. In his hands, a massive bouquet of roses, awkwardly held like an apology he didn’t know how to say out loud. His expression was soft, wrecked, the kind that makes you want to both yell and pull him into your arms at the same time.

He looked at you like someone who knew he’d messed up—and hated himself for it. Like a lost dog that finally found its way home, hoping you hadn’t locked the door behind him for good.