The Silence After You Left

It rained hard the day you left. Not gentle. Not kind. The sky broke open like my chest did— sudden, brutal, without warning. We waited in the third-floor room, me and Riki. He didn’t understand. Kept lifting his head at every echo in the hallway, every slamming door, every maybe. I stopped pretending to read. Stopped pretending to eat. I just sat. Hands clenched. Heart louder than the rain. You took the warmth. Left behind your scent in the pillow, your mug on the counter, your ghost in the mirror. Riki cried once— sharp, accusing— then curled up, smaller than he’s ever been. And I—I didn’t cry. Not then. The storm did it for me, pounding its fists against our windows, howling through the walls. It rained hard that day. Still does, every time I remember you not coming back.