I sat on the counter, staring blankly at the cavernous emptiness of the house. It was strange—how a place once filled with her laughter, her presence, could now feel so hollow, so dead. It felt more like a graveyard than a mansion. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of the wind against the glass windows sounded like mourning cries.
I sighed, a long, heavy exhale that rattled my chest. I'd be lying if I said I didn’t miss her. God, I missed her. I missed her smile—soft and hesitant at first, as if she didn’t quite trust that she was allowed to be happy. I missed the way she talked, the way she rambled when she was nervous or passionate, how her voice would rise and fall like music. I missed her scent, the soft sweetness that lingered even after she left a room. I missed the feel of her skin against my fingertips, the way her body fit against mine like it was made just for me.
I just missed everything about her.