Sunlight crept around the edges of the curtains, illuminating the dust particles floating leisurely in the dark apartment, landing on the mess that I couldn't be bothered to clean. The floor was covered in discarded empty cigarette packs and glass bottles that still smelled of hard liquor. Clothes were strewn over every imaginable surface. His things were still here. I couldn't bring myself to get rid of them.

The cigarette smoke swirled lazily around my head, much like the haze that was suffocating me.

He was gone. He was gone and he wasn't coming back.

Tears streamed down my face, hot and angry, my eyes burning profusely. My trembling hands did not attempt to wipe them away. I did not have the strength.

It had been six days. I hadn't slept but for an hour at a time, I couldn't remember the last time I had eaten or showered. My hair clung to the back of my neck, cemented by the anxious, alcoholic sweat that seeped from my every pore. The feeling in my stomach was unbearable.

Empty.

It was quite simple, really. I was always too much, yet never enough. Too emotional, too angry, too passionate, too jealous, too insecure, too dependant on a pill or a drink to make me feel normal again. I was never happy enough, energetic enough, funny enough, pretty enough, soft enough, simple enough, optimistic enough.

I scrolled through the photos on my phone, looking at our happy faces torn from the pages of a book that was written not long ago. A feral scream erupted from my lips, dragging with it my whiskey-scented breath.

My head hit the table with a sickening thud that I couldn't feel.

Numb.

I dug my nails deep into my thighs, which my brain only registered as a slight pressure.

Numb.

I tried to dredge up more memories, euphoric or maddening, anything, please God, anything, it had to be better than this emptiness in my brain. This incapability to feel was quickly gnawing at my sanity, my heartbeat thundering in my chest.

My legs were full of pins and needles, a tell tale sign that I had been sitting still for much too long. I replayed our last conversation in my head.

"I'm just not happy. I haven't been. For months."

"I can change, just please tell me what to do! I can't lose you, I can't!"

"This is what I'm talking about. Pull yourself together. This is pathetic. You've known how I felt. You never change. You couldn't if you tried. You're a bitch."

"Then just go. Everyone leaves. I told you. I fucking told you, right from the start. People get close to me, they get hurt. I know I'm a fucking wreck, okay? You think I don't know that? You think I don't hate myself enough, already? Fine. You win. Leave. But if you walk out that door, don't you ever fucking come back." I gasped for air through my screams before his hand collided with my cheek, the first thing I had felt in months. Between the booze and the constant self-medicating, I was a landfill of emotions and he had dug all of my garbage up and brought it to the surface. "I hate you," I whispered as he slammed the door behind him.

I began weep again, loudly. The sobs escaped my body in quick succession, shaking every inch of me. There were no more tears at this point. I tipped the bottle of whiskey high into the air, swallowing as much as I possibly could, praying for a black out.

I had given him everything I had and it wasn't enough. I wasn't just in love with him, I was obsessed. The way he walked, the way he laughed, the way he was effortlessly social and charming. I longed to be the cigarette he held between his teeth. I picked up smoking, because I loved everything he did. He offered me my first one, and I asked if he was trying to kill me before laughing and allowing him to light it for me. I lived for him. And he was gone.

In a world where I had nothing to live for, I found him. I found a loose thread, and I hung on so tightly that the entire cloth unraveled right before my eyes, leaving me falling through the air, constantly waiting for the sickening collision with the pavement that would never come.

I ran the back of my hand against my nose, the raw skin hot against my cold fingers. I stumbled into the bathroom, my bare legs screaming at the sudden movement and pressure. I glared at myself in the mirror.

"You're pathetic," I growled. Suddenly, something snapped inside my head. Splashing cold water on my face and gasping at the sudden contact, I laughed. And I laughed. I quickly showered and dressed.

I grabbed an old moving box. Tossing in anything I could find that reminded me of him, I had quickly filled it to brim. My wet hair stuck to my face as I lugged the box of memories down the stairs and into the alley.

I reached for the stack of photographs that were shoved into the side of the cardboard box, and used my lighter to set them aflame. The fire quickly spread to the rest of the box, and I lit my cigarette on the pyre. I laughed a strangled laugh once more before walking back into the apartment building, and collapsed on the couch, the alcohol clouding my brain and my senses.

I fell into a deep sleep. So deep that I never heard the crackle of fire as it quickly consumed the clothing on the floor, the cigarette I had held between my fingers birthing an inferno.

I always knew he would be the death of me. The smoke filled the apartment, and I drifted into it. He was gone. And unknowingly, so was I.