The room was too quiet. So quiet that I could hear my own breathing—slow, uneven, like something inside me was breaking one breath at a time. The lights were off. Just the soft hum of the fridge and the faint buzz of the streetlights leaking through the curtains. I'd been sitting there for—I don't know how long. Maybe an hour. Maybe the whole night.
There was a glass in my hand, half-empty, maybe half-full—I didn't care anymore. My reflection stared back from the dark window. I didn't recognize the man looking at me. Eyes sunken, beard rough, the same shirt I wore two days ago. I used to care how I looked. Now, I couldn't even care enough to lie to myself.
I thought revenge would feel good. I thought watching her world burn would make me breathe again. But the truth? It just made the silence louder. I kept thinking about her face when everything fell apart—those eyes that once looked at me with love now filled with fear, shame, and hate. I used to crave that love; now, I couldn't even look at her without feeling like I was the monster.
The phone buzzed once—some message. I didn't bother to check. These days, I hated people. I hated voices. Everyone pretending they cared when they didn't. I used to believe I was in control. But lately, control feels like smoke slipping through my fingers. Every day's the same damn cycle—wake up, fake a smile, breathe, pretend I'm fine.
But I'm not fine. I'm fucking tired.
Sometimes, I close my eyes and see it all again—the moment I saw her with him. That stupid laugh, that sound that used to mean "home." Now it's poison. I can't erase it, no matter how many drinks, no matter how much I try to distract myself. It's carved into me, like a scar on the inside.
I laugh sometimes, out of nowhere. Not because something's funny, but because it's all so fucking stupid. The plans, the revenge, the pretending. What's left after revenge? Nothing. Just ashes.
Last night, I dreamed of her again. She was sitting on the floor, crying, saying sorry. And I… hugged her. In the dream, I forgave her. When I woke up, I wanted to throw up. Because deep down, I knew that part of me still missed her. Still wanted her back. What kind of sick joke is that?
I got up and walked to the mirror. The man in the mirror didn't blink. He just stared, hollow-eyed, almost pitying me. "You wanted this," I whispered. "You got your revenge. You happy now?"The silence laughed back.
I sat on the bed and rubbed my face. My phone lit up again—someone calling. Maybe work. Maybe someone I used to talk to. I let it ring. I didn't want to explain myself anymore. Nobody would understand. They'd say "move on" or "forget her." But how do you move on from a ghost that lives in your head?
The clock ticked. Each sound stabbed into the silence. I felt like I was fading—like a shadow stretched too thin. Maybe this is what happens when you burn everything—eventually, you burn yourself too.
I poured another drink and whispered, "Just one more." But I'd been saying that for weeks.The liquid burned down my throat, but I didn't feel it. Nothing burned anymore. Not like before. I used to feel pain; now I just feel empty.
The city outside kept living—cars, laughter, life. Somewhere, people were falling in love, holding hands, smiling. And here I was, sitting in the dark, drinking with ghosts. I used to think I was strong. That I could handle anything. But grief… grief doesn't shout. It whispers. Slowly. Quietly. Until you forget who you are.
I leaned back, eyes half-closed, and whispered to the ceiling, "What's left now?"No answer came. Just the hum of the fridge, the steady tick of the clock, and the faint sound of my own heart beating—tired, slow, stubborn.
And somewhere deep inside, a small, broken voice whispered back,"Maybe… nothing."