Drowning in the Silence You Left Behind

The quiet is the loudest thing in our apartment now.

I measure time in unheard sounds:
- 7:32 AM: Where your razor should buzz against the bathroom mirror
- 3:15 PM: When the espresso machine no longer screams its daily protest
- 11:47 PM: The space between my breaths where your snoring used to live

Our cat paces the hallway, ears pricked for footsteps that never come. Even she has stopped yowling at the door. The vet called it "depression." I didn't have the heart to tell her we're all just waiting for a sound that doesn't exist anymore.

I find your echo in unexpected places:
- The microwave beeping *just once* instead of your usual impatient three jabs
- The shower curtain moving when there's no draft
- That one warped floorboard by the bed that doesn't creak under phantom weight anymore

Yesterday, I screamed until my throat bled. Not words—just raw, animal sound. The neighbors called the super. When he came, I watched his eyes dart to the medicine cabinet where your antidepressants used to be. His mouth opened. Closed. The silence between us grew teeth.

I still sleep on my side of the bed. The empty space beside me has started to feel like quicksand. Some nights I wake up gasping, convinced the stillness is filling my lungs.

The terrible truth?
You didn't take the silence with you.
You left it here—
a living thing
growing in the spaces
where you used to be.