He swears her ghost wanders through his tiny apartment now, so he sleeps like a scared child with his face turned to the wall. He hates the smell of her shampoo still on his pillowcases.

She rarely thinks of him anymore. Their memories are folded in a shoebox under her bed and she only thinks of him when she cleans her bedroom and accidentally brushes her hand against its chilly cardboard side. She never allows herself more than a fleeting memory, like a gust of wind swirling at her feet, he’s gone before she remembers the weight of his existence.

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