Emon
The silence in the house had a new texture to it.
It wasn’t peace.
It was absence, thick and echoing. A hollow sort of quiet that made you feel like something had just slipped past you, just out of reach, and left behind the scent of sorrow.
Albert wasn’t in bed when I woke up.
Again.
The sheets beside me were cool, untouched. No imprint of his body. No warmth. Just a space that once belonged to him.
I sat on the edge of the mattress, running a hand over my face as the ache in my chest settled deeper. My fingers paused at my temples, my head had been pounding every morning lately. Probably from all the pretending.
Pretending I didn’t notice the late-night walks that lasted too long.
Pretending I didn’t hear the soft click of the door when he thought I was asleep.
Pretending
