Nights were always quiet.
But ever since she left, they were unbearable.
Enzo sat in the armchair in his bedroom, the one he never used unless he was thinking too much. A storm raged quietly behind his eyes. The glass of untouched whiskey sat on the side table, a thin ring of condensation spreading like a stain on the polished surface. The room was dark, lit only by the distant city lights slicing through the windows.
She used to hate that chair. Said it looked like it belonged to a man too old to feel.
"You're already halfway there," she’d teased once, curling her legs under her on the couch, wearing his shirt and nothing else.
God.
He could still smell her on the pillow.
That day played on repeat in his mind—the way her laughter had bounced off the walls, warm and real. She had th
