I thought the hardest part would be the leaving.
I was wrong.
The hardest part is what stays.
His smell stayed first. It clung to the pillow even after I changed the sheets. I pressed my face into it once, just to be sure I wasn't imagining it. I told myself it was only soap. That lie did not last long.
His voice stayed next. I heard it when the room was quiet. Not words. Just the shape of how he spoke my name. Soft, like he was careful not to break it.
I tried to drown the silence with sound. I turned on the radio. I let the TV play shows I did not watch. Noise helped, but only while it lasted. When everything went quiet again, he returned.
I started sorting things the next day.
At first, I told myself I was being practical. If I cleaned now, I would not have to later. That was not the real reason. The truth was simple. Touching his things made him feel closer. Like he was only in the other room, not gone from my life.
I folded his clothes slowly. Each one held a memory. This one from a rainy day. This one from a night we stayed out too late. I tried not to think, but thinking came anyway.
I found the watch he forgot in my drawer. I held it in my palm. It was still warm from my hand, not his. That hurt more than I expected.
Time kept moving inside that watch, even though he wasn't here to wear it.
I wondered if he noticed it was missing.
I almost messaged him.
I typed his name.
I stared at the empty screen.
I erased it.
There are words you don't send because once you do, you admit that things can still be changed. I was not ready to hope again.
The city felt different without him. Louder. Sharper. People walked too fast. Couples passed me, close together, like they were afraid of being pulled apart. I looked away every time.
At night, sleep came in pieces. I woke up reaching for someone who was not there. My hand met cold space. I pulled it back like I touched fire.
I kept telling myself this was normal. That pain fades. That time heals. These are the sentences people give when they don't know what else to offer.
Time does not heal.
Time moves.
Healing is something else.
I reread old messages even though I promised myself I wouldn't. The early ones were light. Jokes. Simple plans. Later ones were heavier. Questions. Pauses. Gaps that grew too wide.
I noticed how often I said "it's okay" near the end.
It wasn't.
I started leaving earlier for work and coming home later. The apartment felt too full of him and too empty at the same time. I could not stay in it for long.
One evening, it rained hard. I stood by the window and watched the streets shine. This was the kind of night he liked. He used to say rain made the city honest. I didn't understand what he meant then.
I think I do now.
Rain shows what the light hides.
I sat down to write because my chest felt tight. Writing has always been the only place I could put things without losing them. I did not plan to write much. Just a few lines.
Then my hand didn't stop.
I wrote about the way he looked when he was tired. About how he always checked the door twice. About how he smiled when he thought no one was watching.
I wrote until my wrist hurt.
When I finished, I felt empty, but lighter. Like I had taken something heavy out of myself and placed it on paper.
This diary is full of him now.
That scares me.
What if one day I want to forget, but these pages refuse to let me?
For now, forgetting feels like betrayal.
So I will remember.
I will remember until it hurts less.
Or until it hurts differently.
That is what remains.