The days blur together. I don't know if it's Tuesday, Friday, or the day everything will finally cave in and swallow me whole. The apartment stays the same—its ivory plastered walls closing in, shrinking, suffocating. And me? I'm just here. I exist in this space, but I don't live anymore.

Max sits at the foot of the couch, staring at me with those wide brown eyes of his, and I can't tell if he's confused or just waiting for me to do something—anything other than sink further into the cushions and let time wash over me. His tail flicks once, twice. I ignore him, focusing on the silence in the apartment.

It's been one week since Tyler died. One week since the accident, the call, the realization that my world was over. Seven days, and yet it feels like the pain is still as raw as the moment I collapsed onto the floor, unable to even scream.

I glance over at Tyler's jacket still hanging by the door, exactly where he left it. I can't bring myself to move it or touch it. It smells like him. It's the only thing left that does. If I fold it up, put it away, it'll be like erasing him from this place, like admitting he's really gone. I can't do that. Not yet.

Max whines softly, his little head tilting as if he can sense the heaviness in the air. I should feed him. I should be doing so many things—call Chloe back, answer my mom's texts, maybe shower for the first time in two days. But it all seems so...pointless.

Instead, I rise from the couch, my body heavy with exhaustion that sleep can't fix, and wander aimlessly into the kitchen. The routine has become my crutch. Move, feed Max, sit, cry, repeat. It's easier than thinking, easier than facing the reality that Tyler isn't coming home.

I open Max's food bag, pouring the kibble into his bowl. The soft clatter of dry food echoes in the room, filling the silence for just a second. Max's nails tap against the floor as he trots over, sniffing at his bowl but not eating. He's been like that a lot lately—off, like he's waiting for someone else to show up. He hasn't been the same since that night.

Neither have I.

I turn to the sink, my gaze falling on the half-empty cup of coffee I made yesterday. The milk has separated, the liquid swirling in shades of brown and white, stale and untouched. It sits like a metaphor for me—neglected, rotting from the inside out, unable to change or move forward.

The fridge hums quietly, the only noise aside from Max's sniffing. I run my hand over the countertop, feeling the smooth surface beneath my fingertips. This was where we used to stand in the mornings, making breakfast together, or in the evenings, our conversations flowing easily over the low murmur of music playing from Tyler's phone. Now it's all just...quiet.

And then I hear it.

Faint, but unmistakable. A soft knock, like someone tapping lightly on a door. My breath catches, my heart skipping a beat as I turn toward the sound.

It's coming from the living room.

Max's ears perk up. He hears it too. His eyes dart toward the couch, toward the corner where Tyler's guitar leans against the wall. The knock comes again, a gentle thunk thunk thunk. It's too soft to be anything from the neighbors. It's coming from inside.

I freeze, my hand gripping the edge of the counter. It's probably nothing. Just the old building settling. That's what it is. I try to convince myself, but deep down, something feels...wrong. The apartment feels different, like it's holding its breath, waiting for something I can't see. My mind must be playing tricks on me. Grief does that, right?

Still, I can't help but step closer to the living room, inching toward the sound. My feet feel heavy, like each step is harder to take than the last. I stand there, staring at Tyler's guitar, my heart pounding in my ears.

Another knock. Soft, but clear.

I can't move. I can't breathe. It's coming from the guitar. Tyler's guitar. The same one he played the night before the accident, fingers strumming lightly while we talked about the trip I'd been planning for his birthday. It was supposed to be a surprise—a getaway, just the two of us. But now it's just an empty plan, just like the guitar is now an empty instrument.

And yet, here it is. Knocking.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to move. I reach out, fingers trembling as they brush against the strings. The metal is cold beneath my touch. Still. Silent. My hand recoils, and I take a shaky breath.

Nothing.

The knocking stops.

I step back, heart still racing, trying to shake off the fear crawling up my spine. It's nothing, I tell myself. It's just in my head. I'm sleep-deprived, I'm grieving. Things like this happen when you're lost in your own thoughts, drowning in your own pain. You start to hear things, see things that aren't really there.

Max is still staring at the guitar, though. His ears twitch as if he's waiting for the sound to come back, and his eyes are wide and confused. I try to distract him by rubbing behind his ears, but he doesn't relax.

I force myself to turn away from the guitar and move to the window. Maybe some fresh air will help. I pull the blinds open, letting light spill into the room, but it feels harsh and unwelcome. The world outside is still moving—cars driving by, people walking, oblivious to the fact that mine has come to a screeching halt.

I let out a breath and stare down at the street. The same street Tyler used to walk down every morning on his way to work, the same path we'd stroll together on the weekends with Max. The same place where everything feels normal, while in here, everything is wrong.

I try to focus on the mundane. It's just an apartment. Just a place with walls and furniture, nothing more. But I can't shake the feeling that it's different now. That something shifted when Tyler left, like the air itself is trying to close in on me, to suffocate me under the weight of his absence.

A knock at the door pulls me from my thoughts. For a second, my heart leaps. It's him. It has to be him. The thought is absurd, irrational, but it's the first thing that rushes to my mind. I run to the door, throwing it open without even checking through the peephole, my breath catching in my throat.

But it's not him. It's no one.

The hallway is empty, silent except for the soft hum of the overhead lights. My pulse is still racing, my chest tight as I stand there, staring into the void. I step out into the hallway, looking left, then right. There's nothing, no sign of anyone who could've knocked. My heart sinks.

I feel like I'm losing my mind.

I shut the door, locking it this time, and lean back against the wood, closing my eyes. It's the grief. I know that. It messes with you. Makes you think things that aren't real, makes you hear things that couldn't possibly exist. I need to calm down. Breathe. Just breathe.

Max is pacing now, moving back and forth across the living room. His nails click against the hardwood, and it feels like the sound is echoing inside my head. I sit back down on the couch, pulling my knees to my chest, watching Max as he circles the room. He pauses in front of the guitar, sniffing it cautiously before backing away.

I close my eyes again, trying to push it all away—the sound, the knocking, the emptiness. I focus on the memory of Tyler, on the way he used to sit beside me on this very couch, the feel of his hand resting on my knee, his voice low and comforting.

But even that feels distant now. Like it's slipping away from me, like I'm losing him all over again.

The guitar creaks again, and my eyes snap open. My breath catches in my throat, fear curling its way back up my spine. I don't dare look at it this time. I can't.

Max whines softly, his eyes meeting mine. I know he feels it too.

There's something here.

And I'm starting to think it's not just in my head.