Brad
The door closes behind her.
Not a slam. Not dramatic.
Just a soft, final click.
It’s worse than if she’d shouted. Worse than if she’d thrown something. Because that sound doesn’t echo—it settles. It sinks into the walls, into my chest, into the space she just vacated like it’s always been meant to be empty.
I don’t move.
I stand there, staring at the door like it might open again if I wait long enough. Like she’ll come back in, roll her eyes, call me an asshole, tell me she didn’t mean it.
She doesn’t.
The room feels wrong without her. Too quiet. Too big. Like the air’s been sucked out of it.
I drag a hand down my face, exhale slowly, then faster, then again like I’ve forgotten how breathing works.
“I didn’t touch you.”
The words echo back at me, ugly and hollow.
As if tha
