She hates crying.

Especially over someone.

Especially over you.

But the tears are already there when she closes her apartment door and leans her back against it, trying to pretend the silence doesn’t feel louder tonight. Her coat slips off her shoulders and crumples to the floor. Her heels follow. Then her purse. Like the pieces of her she’s been trying to hold together all week are finally giving up too.

The lights stay off.

She doesn’t want to see the place. Doesn’t want to see your hoodie still half-tucked under the couch or the mug you used to steal because “tea tastes better from the chipped one.”

She never moved them.

She swore she would.

But she hasn’t yet.

And she’s starting to wonder if she ever will.

It’s been a couple weeks now, and she should feel better. Should be past this part. She’s gone out, she’s laughed in photos, she even kissed someone else last weekend just to feel something that wasn’t your ghost. But all it did was remind her how you touched her waist like it was made of something fragile, like she was the only real thing in the world.

And tonight?

Tonight you didn’t call.

For the first time.

Not a single “You home?” Not a voice note. Not even a reaction to her story.

Nothing.

She didn’t think it would matter so much. She thought she was tough, that the hardest part was leaving your arms that night. Pulling herself out of something that felt so good and so broken at the same time.

But she was wrong.

That wasn’t the hardest part.

This is.

Being out at a party, surrounded by people who don’t really know her, pretending like she’s fine, like her smile isn’t cracked right down the middle. Then the music shifted — that song. Your song. The one you danced to once, barefoot and half-drunk in the kitchen at 2 a.m., before you ever said you loved her but already meant it.

She had to step outside. Said she needed air. Blamed the champagne.

But the truth is, she couldn’t breathe.

Now she’s on the floor of her apartment, her back against the wall, your T-shirt from the night you first met lying there in the corner like a memory she can’t scrub out. She could kick it under the bed. Forget it. Pretend it doesn’t hurt anymore.

But she doesn’t move.

Just sits there, phone screen dim, notifications empty.

You really didn’t try tonight.

And it’s not like she expected anything, not really. You said goodbye. You meant it.

But part of her hoped you’d break the silence first.

Even just once.

Even just a little.

Instead, she stares at the ceiling and lets it hit her — all at once, all too loud.

You’re not calling. You’re not thinking about her. You’re probably asleep, or with someone else, or forgetting how it felt when she told you “I love you” and meant it like a promise.

And God, she wants to forget you, too.

But she can’t.

She knows the damage is done. Knows it’s over.

But right now, tonight — for the first time — she believes it.

And it wrecks her.