The world had gone strangely quiet.
Daniel stood across the street, drenched beneath a flickering lamppost, the distant murmur of traffic humming like a heartbeat too far away to help. His eyes were fixed on the glowing sign of the love hotel. He wasn't blinking. Not really breathing. Just… staring.
Rain drizzled softly around him, the mist settling over his shoulders like a weight. But he didn't flinch. His face was wet—part rain, part something else entirely. It didn't matter anymore.
He couldn't look away from the door she'd walked into.
Leah.
His Leah.
She had smiled. She had leaned in. Her hands had curled around another man's collar like she'd done with his once, when they were younger, when their hearts beat loud enough to drown the world out.
And now? The silence was deafening.
Daniel slowly pulled out his phone from his coat pocket. His hands were trembling so hard he had to steady them against a wall. He opened the camera. Set it to video. And waited.
He didn't know why he was doing it. Maybe he needed proof that this wasn't just a nightmare. Maybe he wanted the pain to have a shape. A name. A timestamp.
Ten minutes passed.
Then fifteen.
The door clicked open.
There she was.
Her heels clacked softly on the pavement. Her arm was looped with his. She laughed—laughed—as if she were nineteen again, falling in love for the first time. The man she was with was saying something, brushing her hair behind her ear like it was second nature.
And then they kissed.
Slow. Familiar. Like they'd done it before.
Daniel's thumb pressed down.
Record.
The video lasted all of twelve seconds.
They walked to the car, hand in hand. Another quick kiss. Then they drove off.
Only then did Daniel lower the phone.
He didn't cry this time. The tears had already carved their path down his cheeks. Now there was just the ache—a hollow, consuming silence spreading through his chest.
---
He walked home without checking the time.
The streets blurred by as if the world had lost color. Neon signs flickered above him. Music thumped from bars and restaurants. Couples laughed. Life moved on, oblivious to the quiet breaking of his heart.
When he entered the apartment, everything was as he left it.
The decorations he had set up—soft lanterns and fairy lights—glowed gently in the living room. A small cake sat untouched in the fridge. The handwritten letter still rested on the table, beside a silver-wrapped box with a satin bow.
He had spent hours picking that locket. He'd even engraved the back:
"L+D – Still Us."
It felt laughable now.
He didn't bother turning on the lights. He walked past the gifts. Past the kitchen. Straight to the bedroom.
He stripped out of his damp clothes and slid beneath the blanket, curling in on himself like a child. His body shook, but no sound escaped his lips.
He didn't want to wake the ghosts.
---
It was close to 1 a.m. when the front door clicked open.
Leah stepped in, heels in hand, coat draped over her arm. She looked tired but relaxed—until her eyes landed on the room.
She froze.
The banner across the wall.
The lights.
The wrapped gift.
Her stomach dropped.
She hadn't forgotten—she had ignored it. And now, it stared back at her like an accusation.
Her heart began to pound. "Shit…" she whispered, under her breath. "Daniel…"
She cursed herself softly, brushing her fingers through her hair and wiping her face in the hallway mirror. She forced a smile—practiced, polished. Then walked toward the bedroom.
---
Daniel had his back to the door, motionless under the blanket.
Leah crept closer, gently placing her hand on his shoulder.
"Danny…" she whispered.
He stirred slowly.
"I'm sorry," she said. Her voice had softened now, sweet and coaxing. "I got caught up at work. There was a situation, and it just went on and on... I didn't mean to be this late."
He didn't speak.
"I should've texted." She tried again. "I'm… I'm really sorry. Happy anniversary, baby."
A pause.
"I love you."
Daniel turned slightly. His eyes met hers in the dim light. No anger. No confrontation. Just… silence.
Then came a smile—a small, tired curve of his lips that didn't reach his eyes.
"I'm sleepy," he said quietly.
And he turned away again.
Leah stood there for a moment, her smile faltering. She felt a sting—of guilt, of shame—but told herself he was just tired. Just disappointed. She would make it up to him.
Tomorrow.
She kissed his shoulder and walked out.
---
The night faded into morning.
The sun spilled gently through the curtains, golden and warm. Birds chirped distantly outside.
Daniel lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
The pillow beside him was cold.