The glory of the morning as the sun rays beamed into the room, illuminating it in the process. The crumpled bedsheets. The damp smell of different fluids mixed with the scents of two people in the air. The messy room. The clothes that lay forgotten on the floor. A certain empty bottle sitting on the nightstand. The wastebin that was filled with a certain type of trash. The pain that radiated from my lower region. The feeling of emptiness inside.

But most importantly, the warmth that had subsided at the bedside. They were all gone without a trace.

The way you left earlier in a rush, your instructions to leave with a 30-minute interval for each of us.
Us was just an illusion, perhaps there were no us right in the beginning.

If you were to be described in a simple word it would be concise; no trace of guilt, shame nor attachment.

The way you opened the door and turned your back as you left, it was as if you were already cutting off the red strings of fate.

And yet somehow, some reason, I still want to hold on to the loose ends.