The apartment felt different after he left—hollow, but alive in a strange way. Lilian sat on the floor for hours, surrounded by shards of glass and scattered memories. When the storm finally quieted, she gathered the broken frame and placed it on the table. Her reflection wavered in the cracked glass—fragmented, uncertain, but hers.
She took a deep breath, found a pen, and wrote one final note: “It ends when I stop writing him back.” Then she burned it over the sink and watched the ashes curl into silence. But even as the smoke disappeared, the faint smell of Ken’s cologne filled the room again—soft, haunting, familiar. From somewhere deep inside the apartment, a floorboard creaked. And a voice—low, distant, and calm—whispered her name.
Morning arrived like a bruise — dull light spilling through the blinds, everything tinted gray. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy, thick with aftermath. Lilian sat on the floor, legs pulled to her chest, her eyes fixed on the front door Ken had walked through hours ago. The silence in the apartment was enormous, alive, waiting.
She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there. Minutes. Hours. Time had lost its shape. What she did know was that she couldn’t stay. She stood slowly, knees trembling, and looked around the apartment. Every object seemed to be watching her — the clock ticking too softly, the cracked photo frame reflecting slivers of her face, the window half open and whispering a faint wind. Even the air carried his memory.
She began to pack. Not everything — just what she needed. A suitcase, half full of clothes. Her wallet. The car keys. The wedding ring she hadn’t been wearing lately. She hesitated with the ring in her hand, then dropped it in the sink. The clink it made sounded final, like a verdict.
She told herself she wasn’t running this time. She was leaving. There was a difference. But the apartment didn’t agree. As she zipped the suitcase, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied. Her breath quickened. She turned them off and tried to convince herself it was just a power surge.
Then came the sound — faint but unmistakable — a soft dragging noise, like someone moving across the floor in bare feet. Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Ken?” Silence.
She stepped into the hallway, clutching her phone like a weapon. The sound stopped. The air was motionless, too still. Then, behind her, something whispered: “Don’t go.” She spun around. No one.
Her reflection in the hallway mirror stared back — pale, wide-eyed, trembling. But for a fraction of a second, she could have sworn it wasn’t her face. The mouth was smiling. Hers wasn’t. “Stop,” she whispered. “Stop this.” The reflection didn’t move. Then the mirror cracked. A thin line split the glass from top to bottom, jagged as a lightning strike.
Her suitcase hit the floor as she stumbled backward. “Ken!” she screamed. “Where are you?” The apartment answered with silence — a silence so loud it rang in her ears. She ran to the door, grabbed the handle. It wouldn’t turn. She twisted harder. Nothing. Locked — from the outside. Panic rose in her chest. She pounded the door with her fists. “Ken! Open this! Do you hear me?” No answer.
She took a deep breath, found a pen, and wrote one final note: “It ends when I stop writing him back.” Then she burned it over the sink and watched the ashes curl into silence. But even as the smoke disappeared, the faint smell of Ken’s cologne filled the room again—soft, haunting, familiar. From somewhere deep inside the apartment, a floorboard creaked. And a voice—low, distant, and calm—whispered her name.
Morning arrived like a bruise — dull light spilling through the blinds, everything tinted gray. The rain had stopped, but the air was heavy, thick with aftermath. Lilian sat on the floor, legs pulled to her chest, her eyes fixed on the front door Ken had walked through hours ago. The silence in the apartment was enormous, alive, waiting.
She didn’t know how long she’d been sitting there. Minutes. Hours. Time had lost its shape. What she did know was that she couldn’t stay. She stood slowly, knees trembling, and looked around the apartment. Every object seemed to be watching her — the clock ticking too softly, the cracked photo frame reflecting slivers of her face, the window half open and whispering a faint wind. Even the air carried his memory.
She began to pack. Not everything — just what she needed. A suitcase, half full of clothes. Her wallet. The car keys. The wedding ring she hadn’t been wearing lately. She hesitated with the ring in her hand, then dropped it in the sink. The clink it made sounded final, like a verdict.
She told herself she wasn’t running this time. She was leaving. There was a difference. But the apartment didn’t agree. As she zipped the suitcase, the lights flickered. Once. Twice. Then steadied. Her breath quickened. She turned them off and tried to convince herself it was just a power surge.
Then came the sound — faint but unmistakable — a soft dragging noise, like someone moving across the floor in bare feet. Her heart slammed against her ribs. “Ken?” Silence.
She stepped into the hallway, clutching her phone like a weapon. The sound stopped. The air was motionless, too still. Then, behind her, something whispered: “Don’t go.” She spun around. No one.
Her reflection in the hallway mirror stared back — pale, wide-eyed, trembling. But for a fraction of a second, she could have sworn it wasn’t her face. The mouth was smiling. Hers wasn’t. “Stop,” she whispered. “Stop this.” The reflection didn’t move. Then the mirror cracked. A thin line split the glass from top to bottom, jagged as a lightning strike.
Her suitcase hit the floor as she stumbled backward. “Ken!” she screamed. “Where are you?” The apartment answered with silence — a silence so loud it rang in her ears. She ran to the door, grabbed the handle. It wouldn’t turn. She twisted harder. Nothing. Locked — from the outside. Panic rose in her chest. She pounded the door with her fists. “Ken! Open this! Do you hear me?” No answer.
