Empty Room With All the Lights On

You said you’d be back.

You even said soon. I didn’t ask what that meant because you were already pulling your shoes on and humming that same tired verse from whatever band you thought was still underground. The door didn’t close hard. It whispered. Like it was sorry.

I left the lights on for six months. The whole flat. Bulbs cooking themselves to death. I replaced them twice. Kept the receipts. Proof that waiting was real. Proof that someone might notice the energy bill and knock.

I stopped sleeping in the bedroom. That was your room. That was where your smell lived. I pissed in the sink. I ate standing up. I read the same message thread every night and convinced myself the last one wasn’t a goodbye. You said “just need space”. I didn’t know space had such sharp edges.

The rats came next. I heard them first. Then saw them. Then named them. I thought one of them was you. I thought if I didn’t blink it would speak.

I answered the door naked one time. Postman didn’t even flinch. That’s how you know you’re gone. When even your collapse isn’t worth reporting.

They came to check on me. Said the neighbours complained about smell. I told them grief smells like burnt toast and piss and old linen. They didn’t laugh. They wore gloves. They said they’d call someone. I told them not to bother.

The lights buzz different now. The bulbs flicker. Sometimes I think they’re blinking in code. Morse. Some secret language of abandonment.

I still wait.

The bed is made. The windows are sealed. The lights are on.

If you come back, I’ll still be here.
Or the walls will.
They remember better than I do.