Invisible String | Lovertation

January 18

The alarm blares.

I don't move.

It keeps ringing, that shrill, repetitive beeping cutting through the silence of my apartment. I should turn it off. I should get up. But I just stare at the ceiling, barely breathing, barely thinking.

Two weeks.

Two weeks since she died.

Since she bled out in my arms. Since my entire fucking world shattered.

I don't know why I even bother setting an alarm anymore. It's not like I sleep.

Eventually, the alarm stops on its own. The silence it leaves behind is deafening.

I roll onto my side, my gaze falling to the empty space next to me. The sheets are still messy on her side of the bed, like she just got up and went to the bathroom and would be back any second. But she won't.

It's cold. Too cold. The bed feels too big without her in it. The apartment is too quiet.

I close my eyes, just for a second, and pretend she's still here.

That if I reach out, I'll feel her warmth, hear her sleepy voice telling me to come back to bed.

That if I turn my head, she'll be smiling at me, hair messy, eyes soft.

That if I breathe in deep enough, I'll still smell her shampoo on the pillow.

I reach out, fingers brushing the fabric of the sheets.

Nothing.

She isn't here. And she never will be again.

I swallow hard, forcing myself to sit up. The sheets are tangled around my legs, twisted like I fought them all night—which, to be fair, I probably did. My body feels heavy, like I'm dragging weights with every movement.

I rub my hands over my face and groan.

Today is gonna be hell.

I glance at the clock. I have therapy in an hour.

I don't wanna go. I don't wanna sit in a room and talk about how fucked up I am. I don't wanna hear Ella's soft, careful voice, telling me I'll get through this. That it's okay to grieve. That it won't always feel this unbearable.

Because it will.

I push the covers off and force myself out of bed. My legs are stiff, my body aching from the lack of sleep, lack of food, lack of fucking everything.

I grab the hoodie that's been sitting on my floor for god knows how long and throw it on, not bothering to check if it's clean. I pull on some sweatpants and scrape my hair into a half-assed ponytail.

I don't bother with breakfast.

Or brushing my hair.

Or looking in the mirror.

I just grab my keys and head out the door.

The drive to therapy is silent.

I should put on music. But I don't.

It feels wrong.

Every song reminds me of her. Every lyric feels like a knife to the chest. Every melody sounds like something she'd hum in the kitchen, something she'd sing in the car, something she'd dance to in the living room.

I can't listen to music anymore.

I don't even realize I've been gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles are white until I pull into the parking lot and have to force myself to let go. My hands are shaking.