It was raining. A slow, grey drizzle that blurred the windows of the apartment you shared. You’d come home from your shift at the cafe, damp and tired, your bag heavy with textbooks.

The silence hit you first. Not the comfortable quiet of an empty flat, but a hollow, ringing absence. The television was off. No music played from his room. No low hum of his voice on a call.

You called his name. Once. Twice.

Your footsteps echoed on the hardwood as you walked to the bedroom. The door was ajar. His side of the closet stood open, half-empty. The drawers you’d picked out together were pulled out, vacant.

All his clothes. His shoes. The stupid neon sign from his sixteenth birthday. The framed photo of the two of you at the beach, sand in your hair and his arm around your waist. Gone.

On the kitchen counter, the one with the chip in the corner from when he’d dropped a pan, two things sat side-by-side under the fluorescent light.

A single sheet of notebook paper, folded neatly.

And your engagement ring. The diamond caught the bleak light and seemed to swallow it.