The lights are off because you aren’t here. I sit under the covers, propped against a mountain of pillows in my pajamas. I try to imagine you next to me.
Before the sun rises, I start a pot of coffee and the shag carpet feels foreign against my bare feet. It feels like a hotel room here, without you. It’s nice, with amenities, but not home.
I watch the glow of sunrise emerge from between the slits of the blinds. In the silence as the smell of coffee mingles with the early morning air, I realize: I’m healthy and comfortable, something I couldn’t say for a long time.
Which is why I had always been reluctant to let go, to start something so completely with you because letting go means being vulnerable. It’s hard to be vulnerable when you’re an open wound, but I’m all healed up now, and it means nothing without you.