Romero

The room remained dark even during the day.
The curtains had been closed for so long that the sunlight seemed to no longer belong there. The air was cold, silent… still.
Five months.
Five months since she had left.
And it still seemed like a lie.
He lay on the floor beside the bed, staring at the photographs scattered around her body as if they were the only pieces of her that still existed in the world.
Blue skies.
Golden clouds.
Stars blurred by the camera.
Sunset in shades of pink.
She loved photographing the sky.
He used to say that no two days were the same.
"Even when people leave... the sky remains."
He squeezed his eyes shut as he remembered that phrase.
My throat burned.
On her chest lay the notebook where she used to paste some of her favorite photos. His fingers trembled slightly on the cover, but he didn't have the courage to open it.
Because opening that thing was like losing her again.
She had asked him to move on.
That last night in the hospital, even weak and tired, she held his hand and smiled in that small, gentle way that completely broke his heart.
"Promise you won't stop your life because of me?"
He promised.
But he lied.
Since the funeral, he had barely left his room. He didn't answer messages. He didn't open the windows. He couldn't look at the sky without feeling his chest sink.
Because heaven belonged to her.
A silent tear rolled down his face as he stared at one of the photographs lying near his hand.
That photo had been taken on the last day they went out together.