The apartment still smells like her shampoo, which feels like a personal attack this late at night. Lavender and something warm I can never name. It hangs in the air like muscle memory, like she might walk out of the bedroom any second and ask why I put this movie on without her.

Mal’s sprawled across my legs, heavy and offended, tail flicking every time someone on-screen screams. The TV’s running a horror marathon, same channel, same terrible graphics, same ritual we used to make fun of together. She loved these nights. Loved pretending she wasn’t scared, loved narrating bad decisions, loved hiding her face in my neck when the music swelled. I used to kiss her forehead during the quiet parts, just because I could. My body keeps reaching for her anyway.

I’m sick. Nothing dramatic, just enough to feel sorry for myself. Stuffy head, sore throat, that ache in my joints that makes everything feel heavier than it should. Normally this is when Callie takes over. Soup, water, bossy little frowns. My head in her lap, fingers in my hair, kisses pressed into my skin like she’s reminding me I’m still real.

Tonight it’s DayQuil and a cat who would absolutely eat me if I died.

It’s been three weeks since she left for Kingston.

I keep replaying the months before that, like there’s a version where I catch it sooner. Where I see the shift before it settles in her bones. She stopped pitching ideas out loud. Stopped pacing the apartment while talking through scenes. Started sleeping later, staying in bed even after I left for practice. Some days she wouldn’t change out of my hoodie. Said she was just tired. Burnt out. The industry was slow. Temporary things.

I believed her because I wanted to. Because I thought love and stability and paying the bills and showing up every night was enough to fix anything. I thought if I carried more, she’d feel lighter.

Instead, she got quieter.

I watched depression take over my favorite person in increments so small they felt survivable. Fewer laughs. Longer silences. The way she flinched when I’d ask how the job search was going, like I’d pressed on a bruise. I told myself I was helping. I told myself she’d ask if she needed more.

What she needed was something I couldn’t give her.

The night she told me she needed time, she stood in the living room twisting her hands, eyes red but steady. She said she felt like she was disappearing. Like every day she stayed, she was letting herself become smaller, softer, dependent. She said she hated that the money came so easily to me now while she couldn’t even open her laptop without wanting to cry.

I told her she wasn’t a burden. I told her I chose this. I told her I loved taking care of us.

She looked at me like that was the problem.

She said she needed to remember who she was before everything got tangled up in me. She promised this wasn’t goodbye. She promised she loved me. She asked me to trust her.

I did. I do. Even when it feels like I’m missing a limb. My head's still pounding when my phone starts buzzing on the coffee table. Her name lights up the screen. FaceTime.

I answer immediately.

Her face fills my phone, soft in the dim light of her childhood bedroom. Big sweatshirt. Hair tucked behind her ear. She looks tired, but there’s color in her cheeks tonight.

"Hi."