The door clicks shut behind me. The air feels stale, as if it’s been holding its breath, waiting for something—waiting for me, perhaps, or maybe for you to leave, as threatened.

I notice your coat draped over the back of a chair, like you’ve left it intentionally. As to say you’ll come back for it. The image of you lingering in the doorway still fresh in mind.

The bed is a mess, the sheets half-hanging off the edge. A hint at the last time we were together. There’s a the faded indent where your body lay, though the space feels colder, emptier. The room smells faintly of you—your perfume mingling with the lingering scent of sweat and regret.

The silence between us has grown so thick. The absence of our love is evident. We barely talk anymore; barely touch. When we do, it’s out of habit, out of some desperate attempt to hold onto what’s already slipping through our fingers. Your fingers… I remember the way they dug into my lap that night, the way your grip tightened, as if you were trying to hold onto something that was already gone. Maybe even trying to rid me from your thoughts.

I reach out and run my hand along the bed, feeling your side of the bed. I can still picture you there, your eyes shut tight, your body tense, as if trying to block out everything—including me. I know I’ve hurt you, maybe more than I’m aware of. Yet, I’m hurting too. We’re both stuck in this limbo, pretending that everything’s fine when it’s anything but.

If I could go back, I’d stay here in England. I wouldn’t have left for tour, wouldn’t have let the distance grow between us. We could’ve shared a glass of wine instead, watching crash compilations on TV, finding solace in each other’s company. But now, those moments feel out of reach, like something far forgotten.

I’m surrounded by the evidence of what we once had, a reminder of how close we are to losing it all. I want to speak up, to call out, to say something that will fix this, but the words stick in my throat. All I can do is wait for you, I don’t want to hurt you anymore.