Last Night in the Apartment

Last Night in the Apartment

The key clicked in the door one final time.

Ella stood still in the doorway, her fingers lingering on the cold metal of the handle, afraid that if she walked in, the memories would rush at her like a wave. The kind that knocked you down, made you forget how to breathe. But she stepped in anyway.

The apartment smelled like dust and faint traces of lavender detergent. Most of the furniture was already gone. The couch they bought together with leftover graduation money—gone. The record player he insisted on keeping—gone. The bookshelves were half-empty, leaning forward like they too were tired of pretending.

Ella pulled the door shut behind her and leaned against it. The echo of the thud bounced off the bare walls. It was funny, she thought, how loud emptiness could be.

She had one night left before the lease ended. One last night in this space where two people had once tried to build a life.

She walked to the kitchen first. The kettle still sat in the corner, out of habit. She had planned to pack it, but forgot. Or maybe she hadn’t forgotten at all. Maybe a part of her wanted to boil water here one last time. She filled it, set it on the stove, and let the hiss begin.

While it warmed, she opened the drawer by the sink. That drawer. The one filled with takeout menus, broken pens, and batteries no one ever tested. Among the clutter was a fortune cookie paper she hadn’t seen in years. “You will soon find peace in something you lost.”

They had read it together after Chinese takeout on their second anniversary. He made a joke about how peace was impossible with her snoring and she had swatted him with a pillow. They laughed until they couldn’t breathe. She folded that fortune into the shape of a tiny crane and stuck it in the drawer.

It had waited patiently for her to return.

The kettle whistled. She poured hot water over the last chamomile tea bag and took the mug into what used to be the living room. She sat cross-legged on the floor, just like they used to before furniture arrived. Just two bodies and cheap wine and the illusion that love was enough.

Ella sipped her tea and let the quiet wrap around her.

Across the room was the window they used to leave cracked open at night. It faced the city lights and the neighbor’s balcony, where an old woman often sang while watering plants. Ella remembered the first time they heard her. He had whispered, “This is the soundtrack to our weird little life.” And it was.

She got up and opened the window slightly, letting in the hum of the city. The old woman wasn’t singing tonight, but Ella imagined she could hear her anyway.

There was only one room left to visit: the bedroom.

She paused in the doorway. It looked more like a storage unit now, with boxes stacked along one wall and a duffel bag in the corner. But the bed was still there, stripped down to a plain mattress. The indent on the left side still remained, as if he had just gotten up and left for work.

Ella climbed onto the bed and lay there, staring at the ceiling. She remembered how they used to trace patterns in the tiny cracks. One looked like a fox. Another, a heart. Or maybe she only saw the heart because she wanted to.

She turned to face the nightstand. There was a single envelope resting on top.

She sat up.

Her name was written in familiar handwriting. She didn’t recognise the envelope, hadn’t seen it when she packed. Her hands shook slightly as she opened it.

Ella,

I don’t know when you’ll find this. Maybe while cleaning, maybe while packing. Maybe never. But I needed to write it, even if the words never make it to you.

I’m sorry.

Not just for what happened between us, but for the way I left things. For the silence. For pretending it didn’t hurt when I know it did—for both of us.

This apartment was the first place that ever felt like home to me. Not because of the space, or the city, or the furniture we never fully agreed on—but because of you. You made ramen noodles taste like dinner. You made bad days feel survivable. You made me laugh, even when I didn’t want to.

We had love. Real love. But love doesn’t always survive the slow, quiet burn of daily life. We forgot how to choose each other. And by the time we remembered, it was too late.

I want you to know, you were never just a chapter. You were the book I always wanted to write.

I hope you find peace. I hope someone makes you tea on bad days. I hope you laugh so hard you forget how sad you used to be.

Goodbye, but not without love.

– M.

Ella stared at the letter for a long time. Her tears came slowly, not as a storm, but like the first drops before the sky breaks open. She folded the letter and held it to her chest.

There was no dramatic closure. No final confrontation. No apology scene with violins playing in the background. Just this: a letter, a quiet room, and a heart that felt a little less heavy.

She slept on the floor that night, her head resting on the old coat she hadn’t donated yet. Outside, the city buzzed, unaware of the small ache inside a third-floor apartment with peeling paint and forgotten dreams.

In the morning, she made the bed, cleaned the kitchen, and locked the door behind her. She didn’t look back.

Some rooms aren’t meant to hold you forever. Just long enough to show you what you’re made of when you finally leave.