(Etienne's Point Of View)
I didn't plan to drink that night. I had sworn off drinking alone months ago, but the house felt too empty without her. Every hour hurt a little more. Every day without her felt like a week.
By the time the sky went dark, I'd finished half the bottle. I sat in my study, staring at a stack of papers I'd read three times without taking in a single word. The desk lamp cast a small island of yellow; the rest of the room folded into shadow. The glass under my fingers felt cool, then slick as the liquor warmed my skin. A faint tang of lemon polish and old cedar threaded through the air, reminding me the house kept its shape even when I didn't.
"She isn't coming back," I muttered to myself.
It felt childish to say it out loud, but the silence in the room swallowed it up anyway. I leaned back, rubbed my eyes until the muscles ached, then poured another drink. It was stupid. It wouldn't fix anything. But there was nothing else I knew how to do.
