They just left. One day, I woke up, and their side of the apartment was eerily quiet. No shuffling from their room, no clatter of their coffee mug against the counter. Just… silence. A profound, heavy silence that felt wrong.I called out, a knot forming in my stomach. No answer. I pushed open their bedroom door. The bed was unmade, like they’d just gotten up. Their clothes were still in the hamper. Their toothbrush was in the cup next to mine. But they were gone. Not a single note. Not a single goodbye. Just a gaping absence where a vibrant person used to be.
Panic, hot and sharp, coursed through me. Did something happen? Were they hurt? I called their phone. Straight to voicemail. Texted. No reply. For days, I walked on eggshells, listening for the key in the lock, imagining their return. The confusion slowly curdled into anger. How could someone just vanish? How could they just abandon me like this? We lived together. We shared everything. And then, nothing.
The initial shock gave way to a new, terrifying reality: the rent was due. And I couldn’t afford it alone. Not by a long shot. My budget was already stretched thin. Now, with their half suddenly gone, I was looking at eviction. I stared around the apartment, a cold dread settling in my chest. Their half of the space was still filled with their life. Clothes spilling out of their dresser, books stacked precariously on their nightstand, their expensive stereo system dominating one wall. They’d left everything.
A policeman at a wedding | Source: Midjourney
That’s when the idea, crude and desperate, began to form. They’re gone, right? And I need money. It started small. A designer jacket, still new with tags, hanging innocently in their closet. Surely they wouldn’t mind if I sold just one thing? Just to make ends meet for a month. The guilt was a dull throb, but the fear of being homeless was a roar.
I posted an ad online. The jacket sold quickly. That rush of relief was intoxicating. It was a solution. A clever solution. I started to look at their belongings differently. Not as sacred relics, but as resources. Their expensive headphones. Their vintage record player. Each item I sold was a reprieve, another month bought.
But then, something shifted. I wasn’t just selling their things anymore. I started… using them. One cold night, I found their old, worn-out hoodie at the back of their closet. It smelled faintly of their cologne, a scent I missed more than I cared to admit. I put it on. It was oversized, comforting. It felt like a hug. It’s just a hoodie, I told myself. They’re not here to wear it.
Soon, it wasn’t just the hoodie. Their coffee mug, the one with the silly cat drawing, became my favorite. Their side of the couch, once a forbidden zone, became my spot for late-night movies. I started wearing their T-shirts, borrowing their toiletries. It was practical, yes. But it was also… more. It felt like they were still here.
When friends asked where they’d gone, I’d offer a vague, rehearsed answer. “Oh, they got a spontaneous job offer overseas. Moved in a hurry.” Or, “They’re visiting family, it was all so sudden.” The lies felt flimsy at first, but with each retelling, they solidified. They became real.
My apartment became a strange sort of museum. I couldn’t bring myself to clear out their room entirely. It stayed, mostly intact, a monument to a life abruptly interrupted. I’d walk past their open closet and imagine them reaching for an outfit. I’d cook their favorite meal and sometimes, just sometimes, I’d set an extra plate at the table, just to sit across from it. The loneliness was an actual, physical ache in my chest. And this “clever solution,” this elaborate charade, was the only thing that dulled it.
An angry man | Source: Midjourney
I lived in their shadow. I listened to their music. I read their books. I started adopting their phrases, their little habits. I wasn’t just inhabiting their space; I was becoming a ghost of their presence. It felt like a secret ritual to keep them close. Sometimes, late at night, in the profound silence, I’d catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Their hoodie, their mug in my hand, their music playing softly. I barely recognized the person staring back. The lines between us blurred, then vanished entirely.
The guilt, once a distant throb, was now a constant hum beneath the surface of everything. I was living a lie. I was profiting from someone’s sudden absence. I was slowly, meticulously, erasing my own identity and replacing it with theirs. I felt like a thief, a squatter, a… pretender. But I couldn’t stop. I simply COULD NOT stop.
This wasn’t about the rent anymore. This wasn’t about being clever. This was about something much deeper, much darker. This was about the gaping hole they’d left behind. This was about the fear of being truly, utterly alone. This was about not letting go.
I remember the day it happened. The last time I saw them. It wasn’t a casual goodbye as they headed out for work. It wasn’t them walking out with a suitcase. It was the opposite. I remember the shrill, unexpected alarm from the smoke detector. I remember the smell. I remember bursting into their room, eyes stinging. I remember the flames, licking up the curtains, reaching for the ceiling. I remember trying to pull them out. I remember the heat. The smoke. Their limp weight.
They didn’t move out. They didn’t leave me. I was the one who found them, unresponsive, on their bedroom floor. The paramedics. The fire department. The police. The questions. The horrible, suffocating truth. Their life, extinguished in a matter of minutes, in a terrible, senseless accident.
My roommate didn’t pack their bags and vanish into thin air. They died in this apartment, in their sleep, of smoke inhalation, before the fire consumed their room. The fire itself was contained, but the damage to their room was extensive. The rest of the apartment, mostly smoke-damaged, was declared habitable.
A police officer at a wedding | Source: Midjourney
And I, the sole witness, the one who tried to save them, the one who failed… I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t face the reality. I couldn’t admit they were gone. It was too much. So, I created a story. A simple, believable story. They just… moved out. They left everything behind.
My “clever solution” wasn’t about saving money. It wasn’t about surviving financially. It was to keep them alive for me. To deny the most painful truth of my life. I live in a mausoleum of their memory, a prisoner of my own grief and a lie I can never escape.
And the things they “left behind”? They are all I have left of them. EVERY. SINGLE. THING.
I just wish I could really say goodbye. But I can’t. Not when they’re still here, in every single corner of this apartment, in every piece of clothing, every book, every haunting memory. They’re still here. And I’m still pretending they just… moved out.
