The funny thing is that she would’ve married him. Maybe it wasn’t funny in a traditional sense, but it was quite funny nonetheless. She really would have. He never even loved her, and she would have married him. She had thought about, in the far far future, where she would get their engagement rings. What they would look like. If he would even wear it on his finger, because he hated the idea of his jewelry getting dirty. She thought she would get him a chain to go with it too, just in case. Probably in silver. He was always a big fan of norse culture-- His dad was from Finland and he was very proud of his heritage. She was going to save and save and get a sword smithed for him when she proposed. It was going to be a greatsword, with black leather vines wrapping the hilt. Encrusted with red rubies, maybe. And she would have a matching dagger. Not that it matters now.

Her legs brushed against one another underneath the sheets. The sheets they used to share. The mattress that used to be theirs. At least, she thought, the nightmares had stopped. She still wasn’t sleeping well, not by a longshot. Twisting, turning, waking, sleeping pills. In fact, the dreaming had stopped all together. She didn’t even know what she was stressed about. She told herself there was nothing to be stressed about. Her heart raced faster, eyes pressed shut. Just a few more minutes of sleep. Please. The static grew louder and louder still and as she turned over, it stopped. Her eyes opened. It was 4 am. There would be no more sleep that night.

She packed all of his things that he had left in a small box that she had recently received in the mail. It used to carry a few decorations for her new apartment. Now, a blanket, a pair of shoes, a mug, and one of his favorite hoodies. She washed it so it would be clean. She wore it to bed the night before. It’s such a nice hoodie, oversized, soft, she thought. One last time. She secretly hoped it would smell like her, and he would miss her. He washed it as soon as he got home.

She yearned for that feeling of comfort. She knew that he never loved her, but she remembered the moments when he felt like home. When he made the bed extra comfortable for her, and then made her coffee. He said that it was bad, he’s made better, he was sorry. It was the best coffee she had ever tasted. In the winter when they hadn’t seen each other in months and she sat on the edge of his bed while he got on both knees and held her. He told her so many stories that night, his laugh was so bright that it filled the room. He was so warm.

Her bare feet slapped the cold wooden floor.

She knew needed to put on socks, he told her they help regulate your body temperature. Not that she was ever cold, but he always seemed worried about it. It dropped from her throat into her stomach. Again. A common feeling nowadays. Her gut wrenched so hard, she began to salivate, but she knew that nothing would come up. It never actually does.

Brew coffee, dark, black, hot, empty stomach. It doesn’t taste good, but it’s so comforting. Her mother always drank it black growing up. It was adult, mature. It tasted like childhood, when she would steal sips and last bits of what was left in the mug. Cold black coffee turned warm and fresh. She made it often now. She can’t remember how many creams and how many sugars to make it taste good. He always made it better anyway.

She still had a few things that belonged to him. She was getting tired of looking at them-- not in any hateful sort of way. It was just making her tired. The next time I see him, she thought. The next time I see him, I’ll give him everything that’s his. That way, he never has to see me again.

She stood still and held her own hand. Just for a moment.

Black jeans, hoodie from high school. She didn't want to lose him. She already knew the store had the perfect replacement in stock. Pick it up, bring it home. Tell him everything is ready. He can have it. You never have to see me again.

I hope I see you again.

She told him she couldn’t wait any longer. She was tired of waiting to be with him. Being on the hook, trapped in a void full of questions, with laughs for answers. She couldn’t do it anymore. She had finally grown too weary. He said she could always talk to him. Tell him things off and on. She has been. Being left on read.

Throat, stomach, empty, turning, sleeping pills.

It had been raining all week-- And it was going to continue for days. How fitting, the sky is crying too. It’s beautiful, really. She hoped she was that beautiful when she cried, even though she knew she wasn't. He didn’t think she was either.

Get over it.

You are fine.

Get over it.

The funny thing is that she would’ve married him. She really would have. And when she said that she loved him, she meant it. It hurt too badly. But she didn’t want that to mean goodbye. He would never know, but what she really wanted was for him to hold her.

      But he wasn’t there anymore. She didn’t even know where he went. Her searches kept getting longer and longer, as he became further and further away. A ghost.

And she needed it; she couldn’t wait anymore.

She needed to finally be loved.

I hope I see you again.

She forced two sleeping pills down her throat as she climbed into the bed he used to make for them. Rubbing her legs together between the sheets, she inhaled. Exhale.

The apartment feels so much quieter now.