JESSICA BERKELEY.
The cottage feels unbearably quiet. The kind of quiet that makes every little sound feel wrong.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen with a mug of coffee in my hand, staring blankly at the untouched breakfast Devin had made earlier before leaving.
The eggs had gone cold hours ago. The toast was hard. Yet somehow I still haven't thrown any of it away.
With an irritated sigh, I grab the plate and dump everything into the trash.
“Stupid,” I mutter bitterly.
I’m not even sure if I am referring to breakfast or myself anymore. But that feels really directed towards me.
The cottage suddenly feels bigger today. Too big that everywhere I look reminds me of him.
His jacket no longer hangs carelessly by the chair. His boots aren't missing near the front door anymore. The abs
