The Apartment After You Left

The Apartment After You Left

The first thing I noticed was the silence.

Not just the absence of your voice — but the way the air itself refused to move. As if even the walls were holding their breath, unsure of what came next.

You didn’t take everything. You never do.

There was still your green toothbrush in the cup beside mine, bent from overuse. The one you always refused to throw out, claiming it still “had some life left.” That toothbrush outlived us.

The living room felt wrong.

The throw blanket was still curled in your shape, still holding the faintest scent of your lavender lotion and cheap cologne. You used to bury your feet under it during movie nights, always falling asleep fifteen minutes in, head on my shoulder like it was made for you.

Now it just sits there, limp and untouched, like a memory too polite to leave.

In the kitchen, you left a wine glass — your favorite one with the chipped rim — next to the sink.

Half-full. Or half-empty.

Depending on the kind of person reading this.

I didn’t throw it away. Not yet.

I stared at it like it might answer the question I’m still too scared to ask:

Did you know you weren’t coming back when you poured that glass?

You always left quietly.

No slammed doors, no angry words.

You slipped out of people’s lives like fog burning off in the morning sun. By the time we realized you were gone, you were already halfway into someone else’s story.

But this apartment still holds you.

You left your socks under the bed, your coffee mug on the windowsill, your echo in the hallway. I find pieces of you in the spaces you never meant to leave behind.

And I keep talking to them.

Hey. Should I water the plant?

The one you swore would survive this time.

It hasn’t.

I found your playlist on my phone.

The one you made for late-night drives and long silences.

It still plays, though the silences feel heavier now.

I know this sounds stupid, but even your mess feels holy now.

The chipped tile where you dropped your keys every night.

The dent in the couch from your endless scrolling.

The bent spine of the poetry book you never finished.

Every corner of this place whispers your name, like the apartment itself is grieving.

I didn’t think it would be this hard.

I thought when you left, I’d at least be able to breathe again.

But everything feels half-full.

Or half-empty.

Depending on the kind of person I’m becoming.

I tried to box your things.

Your hoodie still smells like October — sharp, sweet, and a little bit sad.

Your letters are hidden between pages of books, like you wanted me to find you slowly.

And I did.

You never actually said goodbye.

No final conversation, no parting glance, no neatly folded closure.

Just a trail of your existence like breadcrumbs I keep choking on.

I still sleep on one side of the bed.

Still wait for your key in the door.

Still flinch at footsteps in the hallway.

This apartment has become a shrine to almosts.

Almost made it.

Almost fixed it.

Almost stayed.

There’s a photo on the fridge — us at the beach, you grinning wide with salt-stuck hair, me half-laughing like I didn’t know how lucky I was.

I keep staring at it like I could climb back into that version of us.

Before we knew that love isn’t always enough.

Before we forgot how to choose each other.

Sometimes, I think I hear your laughter in the pipes.

Sometimes, I answer it.

But the truth is, I’m learning.

Learning how to fill this space with something other than your shadow.

Learning how to sit in the silence without reaching for my phone.

Learning that the ache doesn’t mean I want you back —

it just means you mattered.

The apartment is quiet now.

Not broken — just different.

Like a record with a new groove.

Like skin that’s healing under a scar.

And me?

I’m still here.

Still brushing my teeth next to your green ghost.

Still sleeping on the left side of the bed.

Still walking through the shape of you that lingers in the air.

But one day — maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow —

I’ll wake up,

look around,

and realize this apartment is mine again.

Even after you left.