The Morning After the Last Goodbye

The Morning After the Last Goodbye

By Mahboob Khan

Story:

The apartment still smelled like his cologne, though he had moved out nearly a year ago.

Sana stood in the center of the living room, now stripped of half its furniture. The couch was gone — his. The lamp in the corner — hers. The memories? Still scattered, still sharp.

She was here for the final sweep. The landlord had given her a deadline to hand over the keys. Closure, signed by date.

But closure isn’t just handing over keys.

She hadn’t seen Aariz since that morning.

The one where he stood at the door, suitcase in hand, and said, “I can’t do this anymore.”

No fight. No betrayal. Just love that turned heavy.

They were good people, just not good together anymore. That’s what she had told herself. Again and again. Until it echoed like a lie she started believing.

He had wanted to stay. She had wanted space.

He gave her both.

And now, nearly 365 mornings later, she was still waking up missing his coffee. Not the coffee, really — the way he always remembered to stir in exactly one and a half spoons of sugar because “two is too sweet, and one is just not you.”

She smiled bitterly at the memory.

Then she found his old hoodie in the back of the closet.

It still smelled like rain and sandalwood. She sat on the floor, hugging it to her chest like an apology too late. Her phone buzzed. A reminder popped up: “Move out day – final.”

She stood slowly, walked to the kitchen counter, and tapped her phone screen.

Voice Recorder.

She didn’t know why.

Maybe because no one else would ever hear it.

Maybe because she couldn’t say these words to anyone but the walls they built together.

She hit record.

“Hey… Aariz.”

“I know this is weird. I’m in the apartment. Or... our apartment, I guess. Just finished packing the last box. It looks empty. Like a memory that forgot how to be remembered.”

“You once said that someday I’d understand the silence you left behind. I hated that sentence. I hated that you were right.”

“I understand now.”

“I thought I needed space to breathe. But you were the air. Not a prison. Just... the only part of the day that made sense.”

“I waited for you to come back. For months. Every knock on the door made my heart trip. But you didn’t. And I didn’t call. Maybe pride. Maybe fear.”

“So, this is me... calling now. Late. Pointless. Honest.”

“I hope you sleep well. I hope someone stirs your coffee the way you like. And I hope when you laugh, it sounds like it used to — without the weight.”

“I loved you. I still do. But I’m learning to let go now.”

“Goodbye, Aariz.”

She stopped the recording. Just stared at her phone.

She didn’t send it.

She didn’t need to.

Sometimes love is less about going back and more about leaving gently.

She placed the phone on the counter, took one last look at the place where they had danced barefoot, cried under blankets, and once made a home out of cheap furniture and stubborn hope.

Sana locked the door behind her, walked into the morning light, and for the first time in months, breathed like the air didn’t hurt.