Days.

Days.

“At the moment there is only bad crying.”

“What is good crying?”

“It’s the kind that makes you feel better.”

The crying I do right now doesn’t make me feel better. It comes with a heavy weight that lodges on my chest and it makes the room feel big and small but mostly just empty.

I am alone in my house.

Certain corners of it smell like him, and it’s a great smell. It smells like soil and earth and leaves and air. “His” couch dips in the middle, where his body curved against it. I’ve left his dirty plates on the bench because I can’t remember how to clean anything but also in case I want to touch them.

If I close my eyes really tight, I can feel him pressed against me.

I make him dinner in case he comes home but then I throw it away.

I download a movie we wanted to see and watch a few minutes of it on my own and pretend he’s lying next to me in the darkness.

I stare at his number in my phone.

I realise I left my laptop at work.

I talk about things that don’t matter to people who care about me more than he does.

And then I sleep.

And then I wake.

And then I sleep.

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