The apartment was silent again. Not the soft, restful silence of contentment—but the kind that echoed. The kind that made the ticking clock sound too loud, made the hum of the refrigerator feel like company. Belladonna Jonnes sat curled on the edge of her couch, knees tucked to her chest, mug untouched in her hands. Her eyes were fixed on the window, watching rain trace invisible trails across the glass like the softest fingers trying to reach her. It had been seventeen days since Caleb walked out of her door. No slamming. No shouting. No grand declarations or closing monologue. Just a bag packed slower than it needed to be and a quiet "I need space" before the door clicked shut behind him. And just like that, Belladonna's world lost its gravity.
She didn't call. Neither did he. And yet, every vibration of her phone pulled her heart into her throat. What hurt more than the silence was the not-knowing. Not knowing if he was okay. If he thought of her at night like she thought of him. If he, too, missed the weight of her head on his shoulder. If he scrolled through their old photos—laughing in the mirror, her lipstick smudged on his cheek—and paused, just a second too long, before looking away. The memories betrayed her. They slipped in when she reached for sugar, they found the ceramic jar he bought her last December. When she changed the sheets and still caught the faint trace of his cologne. When her playlist shuffled into the song they slow-danced to under kitchen lights. Belladonna had never known how loud absence could be.
She never thought affection could have echoes. She never imagined that someone could leave, and still take every warm thing in the room with them. With Caleb, love had started so gently. A slow unraveling of guarded smiles and hesitant touches. He saw through her too quickly—called her out when she pretended to be fine. But it was in the way he touched her face in the dark, or waited until she got home before eating, that she truly felt wanted. Not because she was dazzling or difficult to reach—but because she was herself, and that was enough. Until, one day, it wasn't. Or maybe it still was. Maybe Caleb just didn't know how to hold something that soft without dropping it. Maybe he needed to learn the difference between needing space and pushing love away. Belladonna blinked hard, tears roll down her cheeks again, though she had no more room for grief.
She ached not just for Caleb but for the version of herself that bloomed beside him. The girl who laughed louder, kissed slower, believed if only briefly that someone could love her in her entirety, scars and all. And yet… here she was. A heart cracked open, still beating. Still hoping. At night, she whispered into her pillow what she couldn't say out loud"I don't want to chase anyone's love. I just want to be chosen. Freely. Completely. By someone who sees me—even on the days I can't see myself." She didn't know if Caleb would come back. She didn't know if she'd let him. She knew this: the heart that yearned inside her had not gone quiet. It still thumped fiercely, stubbornly, ready to be held right. Not out of obligation. Not out of habit, but out of real, reckless affection.