Adrian stands in the kitchen, arms loose at his sides, listening to the hollow stillness Olivia left behind. He waits—sixty heartbeats—eyes on the faint shadow where her fingers gripped the counter edge. The overhead tubes hum, cold and constant. Her dinner—half-eaten noodles, fork upright—sits abandoned; a lipstick-rimmed glass of water beads condensation on the island. He lifts the fork, then sets it back, as if afraid to finish the gesture she began.
He traces her place on the barstool cushion with his palm, pressing just enough to feel the imprint. From behind he peers toward the window—traffic blurred below, his reflection in the oven door—searching for signs she left behind. He opens the fridge: yogurt cup intact, foil unbroken, post-it reading “Eat me, or else.” He closes it gently
