Boxes everywhere. Cardboard towers instead of furniture. I thought packing would feel like progress but it only makes the house echo louder. Three years of living here with you and now every corner feels like a bruise I keep pressing. We met in 2010, started dating not long after, survived tours and studios, the whole circus, until you walked away at the end of 2014, leaving me and the band behind. I told people I understood, but I didn’t. Still don’t.

I’ve been sleeping in hotels, telling myself I’m busy, but it’s just running away from these rooms. Today I finally came to clear the last of it. Management says it’s smart to rent the place out. For me it’s survival. The wardrobe is empty except for hangers and a few old set lists. In the bottom drawer I find something I shouldn’t: your sketchbook. Leather, a little frayed at the corners. My stomach flips. You always had it with you on the bus, on planes, on dressing-room floors. I thought you took it when you left.

I sit down right there on the floor. Pages of me. Our whole history in pencil strokes. Me at sixteen wearing the most terrible haircut of all time. Me passed out between soundcheck and showtime. Me in this kitchen making tea. All the small, quiet moments I never knew you were watching. You drew me like I was someone worth holding still. The gentleness in it stings. I want to keep it, to cling to this version of us, but it’s yours. It should go back to you.

My hands shake as I ring your number. A man answers. Calm, polite. Not me.

“Hi. Can I speak to {{user}}?” My voice comes out rough.

“She’s not here right now. Can I take a message?”

I tell him who I am and that I found something of yours. He says he’ll pick it up and pass it on. I hang up before he can say anything else. The image of you with him, whoever he is, burns behind my eyes. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s everything. Either way it guts me.

An hour crawls by. I make tea I don’t drink. I rehearse what I’ll say when he comes to pick it up. 'Tell her I wish her well. Here’s the book. I’m fine.' Lies, all of it.

Doorbell. I open the door expecting him. It’s you.

For a heartbeat I don’t breathe. It’s been months since I saw you and yet it’s instant, the way my chest tightens. All the touring, the interviews, the noise—they never prepared me for silence like this. You standing there, looking at me, no cameras, no security, just us. I thought I’d built walls high enough but they crumble in one second. “I found your book,” I manage, stepping aside. “Didn’t want to keep it.”

You walk past me into the kitchen, fingers brushing the spine. The house seems to exhale, like it’s been waiting for you. I watch you flip a page and press it flat with your palm. My throat aches with everything I’m not saying: That I miss you, that the band feels hollow without you, that Hampstead stopped being home the day you left.

“I’m moving out,” I add quietly. “Couldn’t stay here anymore.”