The apartment is too small for all this silence.

It presses in from the walls, from the corners where the shadows cling and stretch when the sun begins to drop. It settles on the shelves, on the couch, on the floor that creaks beneath my feet. The air is still, thick with dust motes that float and fall like suspended memories, and each time I breathe in, I taste the emptiness.

This was our place—mine and Tyler's. Now it's just...mine.

I sit on the soft navy couch, the one we picked out together, back when we thought we'd spend the next ten years at least lounging here, half-watching bad movies while sharing takeout. It feels cold beneath me, as though the life we brought into this space was packed up with him when they carried him away.

Max is curled at my feet, his little body rising and falling with the slow rhythm of sleep. He's the only warmth in the room, the only thing that still feels real. Tyler gave him to me. A birthday gift. The memory of that day feels like a cruel joke now, the bright moments turning sour in my chest as I relive them over and over.

The box, wrapped with a messy red bow, sat on the coffee table when I came home from work that afternoon. I remember laughing, Tyler standing there, watching with that grin that always said he had something up his sleeve. He'd been so excited. So alive.

"Happy early birthday," he'd said. "I couldn't wait."

Inside the box, Max had been all floppy ears and wide, anxious eyes. I'd wanted a Border Collie for years, but Tyler hadn't been sure. Too much responsibility, he said. But that day, he'd given in. He'd told me he couldn't imagine me being happier than when I had Max in my arms, and he'd been right.

Now, it's just me and Max, and the apartment feels like a grave.

The silence has become heavier since October 8th—since the day Tyler left me, left this world, left everything behind. It's been six days. Six days since the phone call, six days since I collapsed to the floor with the weight of that single word: accident.

Six days since my world stopped moving.

I haven't left the apartment since then. Chloe, my best friend, and my parents have all tried to reach me. Calls, texts, even knocking on the door once or twice. I don't answer. What could I possibly say? How could they understand the void Tyler's left behind? I'm not ready for them. I'm not ready for the outside world, not ready to pretend I'm something more than the hollow thing I've become.

Instead, I stay here, surrounded by what little remains of him. His red jacket, still hanging by the door. The pair of basketball sneakers he kicked off after our last walk together, still tucked haphazardly beneath the coat rack. His guitar, leaning against the wall, the strings gathering dust like they've accepted he'll never touch them again. The echoes of our life together are everywhere, and yet, they only make the space feel emptier.

Max stirs in his sleep, and I reach down, my fingers brushing his fur. He shifts slightly, nestling closer, and I let my hand rest on him, needing to feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. He's too young to understand what's missing. Maybe that's for the best.

My phone buzzes from the coffee table, and I ignore it. Another text. Another voice trying to pull me out of this place, this shell of what I used to be. I can't. Not yet. The outside world doesn't make sense without Tyler in it. My head throbs as if my thoughts are fighting to escape, to remind me of things I'm not ready to confront.

I can't look at the future. The future was him. The plans I made—we made—are all shattered, dissolved like the breath fogging up the window when I stare outside. Sometimes, I catch myself thinking he's still out there somewhere, coming home to me. I picture the sound of his key in the lock, the door swinging open, and the way he'd call my name before sweeping me into his arms.

But the apartment stays still. The silence remains unbroken. He's not coming back.

I can't stand it anymore. The quiet. The loneliness that comes with the absence of the only voice that ever made me feel like I wasn't alone. I rise to my feet, Max lifting his head to watch me as I pace through the living room, around the kitchen counter, into the narrow hallway where our bedroom door remains half-open.

I hesitate for a moment before stepping inside, staring at the bed, the unmade sheets tangled where we last slept together. The faintest trace of his cologne still clings to the fabric, and I breathe it in like it's the only oxygen in the room. I close my eyes and let myself sink into the memory—his arms around me, the feel of his breath against my skin, the warmth that only he could bring.

I sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at my hands. They look foreign to me, empty without his to hold them. My chest aches, and I press a palm against it, trying to smother the pain, but it doesn't go away. It never does.

A sound breaks the silence—a faint, soft creak. I freeze, my heart pounding in my ears as I glance up. It's coming from the other side of the room, near the closet.

I wait, barely breathing.

Another creak, louder this time. Like the floorboards shifting under the weight of something moving. Max barks suddenly, leaping off the bed and racing to the door, his nails scratching against the hardwood as he growls low in his throat. My heart races, and I rush after him, reaching for the door handle, fumbling with it as the sound grows louder, almost like footsteps.

When I swing the door open, the hallway is empty. Nothing is there but the weight of the silence creeping back in.

Max stops growling, his tail tucked between his legs as he backs up, his eyes wide and fixated on something I can't see. I kneel beside him, resting a hand on his head to calm him, but my own pulse refuses to slow down.

The apartment feels different. The silence feels different, like it's waiting for something, or maybe someone. I glance back toward the living room, where Tyler's things still sit, undisturbed. For the first time in days, I feel something other than numbness. It's faint, but it's there—a pull, a sense that I'm not as alone as I thought.

Max whines softly, and I hold him close, my mind spinning with questions I'm not sure I want answers to.

The apartment is still too small for all this silence, but now, I'm not sure it's empty either.