It's been a week.
A whole week since that night.
Since her words began echoing endlessly in my mind.
I haven't left the house since.
I lie curled up on my bed, wrapped in a blanket—more to hide from the cold inside me than the one in the room.
The curtains are drawn, the light off.
I haven't eaten since yesterday.
This emptiness… it stretches from my chest to my mind, to the bottom of whatever is left of my soul. I'm not even sure if I'm lonely. I do have a best friend… or had one.
He hasn't spoken to me since his parents died.
And honestly? I don't blame him.
He's alone now.
I still have something—someone. A mother who hits me. A father who left long ago. But still, something.
I kept thinking about her.
Her face. Her eyes. Her lips.
They haunt me more gently than my mother's hand.
They burn into my mind, uninvited.
I was obsessed with her, or maybe just with the idea of her. The memory of that night. That fleeting second of connection.
Maybe I did want to end it all with her.
Maybe dying together, at that lake where so many lovers had chosen to disappear, would have been the most beautiful thing we could do.
I called us lovers. Not because we were—but because I wanted us to be.
That morning, I stood up.
The kind of standing up that takes everything in you.
I grabbed an empty bag—not sure why—and crept through the silent house.
I didn't want to wake her.
Didn't want another bruise to carry on this skin.
I opened the front door slowly.
The cold hit my face, and my heart beat faster.
Was it adrenaline? Fear? Hope?
I ran.
I stumbled first—fell forward, almost kissing the ground—but caught myself mid-fall.
Then I ran harder.
Past houses, past blinking traffic lights, past people I didn't see.
All I wanted was to see her face again.
To know she was real.
I arrived at the convenience store, gasping, chest burning.
It was early. Only one person was inside.
An average guy. Blonde, dull eyes, face pale like someone who hadn't slept in days.
"Sir!" I blurted, breathless. "D-do you know when that girl—she had messy hair, she used to work here—when does she come in? Please..."
He looked at me.
Long and cold.
Like I was something he wanted to step over.
"That bitch?" he muttered. "She left. Broke my car window and spit on the manager. If I'd known what she was like, I'd have beaten her to death already. You a relative or something? Somebody's gotta pay for what she did."
I froze.
I didn't know what to say.
Didn't know what to feel.
I stepped outside.
Stood in the parking lot under the gray morning sky.
Everything felt quiet again, like the world was holding its breath.
Did she really leave without me...?
Was she gone… or was I too late?