Ache in my bones

I was rinsing her mug, the one with the chipped handle, my fingers tracing its jagged edge like a wound that wouldn’t heal. The soap suds clung to my skin, fragile as dreams dissolving in the dawn.

The flat was a graveyard of her absence. No echo of her laughter, no clatter of her spoon against the bowl she loved. She’d scrubbed the counter clean before she left, as if to erase her shadow from the walls. A hairpin lay forgotten under the windowsill, catching the light like a tear frozen in time. I couldn’t bring myself to move it.

We were never lovers, not in name. Just two souls tangled in the convenience of shared rent, a flat too small for secrets. But we’d woven a quiet rhythm; her stealing my socks, me brewing her tea bitter as her hometown tales. We’d curl up on the couch, her legs across mine, watching old films until the screen flickered and her breath softened into sleep. When did it stop being simple? When did her pillow on my side of the bed start feeling like home?

Her transfer letter came like a thief, stealing her away to a new city, a better life. She didn’t ask if I’d follow. I didn’t beg her to stay. We were experts at swallowing words, letting silence carry the weight of our unsaid truths.

That morning, her suitcase whispered from the next room, each zip a knife in my chest. I kept rinsing the mug, water running cold, my reflection trembling in the sink like a ghost caught in a monsoon’s grief. I was counting moments, not hours, afraid to look at the clock devouring her departure.

“You’ll break it,” she said, her voice soft as a half-forgotten song. She leaned against the counter, hair damp, curling like tendrils of smoke around her neck. My old sweatshirt hung loose on her, a thief wearing stolen skin.

“It’s clean,” I said, my voice a stranger’s, too frail for the room.

She didn’t reply. Just stood there, arms folded, staring at the floor as if it held the map to her heart. The air was heavy with the ghosts of our silences. I wanted to ask if she’d carry me in her thoughts, if this flat would haunt her like it haunted me. But my tongue was a stone, sinking in the river of my throat.

I set the mug down. It teetered, a heartbeat from falling. Her hand reached out, steadied it, her fingers grazing mine. A fleeting touch, but it burned like an ember under ash. My breath stumbled, loud as a prayer in a storm.

“Don’t go,” I whispered, the words escaping like sparrows from a cage.

Her eyes met mine, sharp as a blade, then softened like moonlight on a broken lake. “It’s not about staying, Amar.”

“Then what?” My voice cracked, a branch under winter’s weight.

She stepped closer, close enough for me to smell the rain in her hair, the ache of her nearness. I don’t know who moved first, but our lips found each other; slow, like a river meeting the sea, then fierce, like a fire consuming its last log. Her hands were cold on my face, her lips trembling with the weight of farewell. This wasn’t desired. It was a plea, a stitching of wounds too deep to name.

We didn’t speak. Words would’ve torn the moment apart. Her fingers traced my jaw, mine found the curve of her spine, as if I could hold her soul in my hands. She pressed her forehead to mine, eyes shut, her breath a fragile thread weaving us together. My name in her voice was a poem, a Batalvi verse of love and loss, sung once and never again.

The couch was a relic of our nights, blankets knotted from restless dreams. We sank into it, her body folding into mine, her head on my shoulder, her fingers clutching my shirt like a child afraid of the dark. The fan creaked above, a tired lullaby. Her heartbeat was a drum, steady but racing, like a bird fleeing a storm I couldn’t see.

“You’ll be okay,” she murmured, her voice muffled against my chest. It wasn’t a promise.

“Will you?” I asked, my words a pebble dropped in a well.

She didn’t answer. Her hair brushed my chin, and I felt the damp of her tears, silent as dew on a forgotten flower. I held her closer, my thumb circling her wrist, trying to etch her pulse into my skin. I wanted to say I loved her. I wanted to say I hated her for leaving. I said nothing because love and hate were the same ache in my bones.

She slept, her breath a soft tide against my chest. I stayed awake, staring at the ceiling, the fan spinning like the wheel of fate, counting the seconds until dawn. The city outside hummed, indifferent, as if it didn’t know a heart was breaking in its shadows.

She was gone by morning. No grand farewell, no tears at the door. Just a note beside the mug: Keep it. - S. The flat was a husk, her suitcase gone, the air too still, like a song cut off mid-note. I stood in the kitchen, holding the chipped mug, my thumb tracing its scar. Outside, the city stirred, horns wailing, life marching on.

I waited for the rain, for the sky to weep for me. It didn’t. The sun rose, cruel and bright, as if her leaving was just another dawn.