The morning after, everything was still.
Too still.
I waited for his voice.
That dry, steady whisper.
But Lucas didn't come.
Not in the mirror.
Not behind my shoulder.
Not even in my head.
I ate breakfast in silence.
Mom smiled at me like it was a victory.
"You look rested," she said.
I nodded.
But inside, my stomach twisted.
Because rested wasn't the same as empty.
At school, I caught myself glancing behind me.
At lockers.
Desks.
Corners of rooms.
Expecting him.
Wanting him.
He wasn't there.
I walked home alone.
Listened for the familiar tap of footsteps behind me.
Nothing.
No breath on my neck.
No voice in my ear.
That night, I sat by the window.
Tried to draw the old shapes on the glass.
But the lines didn't make sense anymore.
They weren't ours.
They were mine.
Alone.
I whispered:
"Lucas…"
No answer.
So I tried again.
"Come back."
Nothing.
For the first time, the silence wasn't peaceful.
It was punishment.
Because I'd burned something sacred.
Because I had erased his name.
Because maybe I didn't deserve him anymore.
At 2:17 a.m., I couldn't take it.
I went to the attic.
Sat in the middle of the floor.
Closed my eyes.
And said it out loud:
"I miss you."
The air didn't shift.
No whisper.
No reply.
Just the creak of old wood under my knees.
I curled into myself.
Small.
Cold.
And then I heard it.
Not in the attic.
Not in the house.
But inside me.
Just one word.
"Liar."
I smiled.
Because finally…
I wasn't alone again.