Roach 0002

Roach curled up on the couch. It was awkward—he was too tall to fit on the small, sagging couch—but he couldn't go into the bedroom, into your bed. It was empty. Cold. You weren't there. He buried his face in your pillow—the one you slept on, the one you hugged at night. It still smelled like your perfume. Sweet, a little cloying, the one he'd initially grumbled about being too strong, but then grown to love because it smelled like you.

He didn't call. He didn't write. Not because he didn't want to—he wanted to scream, beg, promise everything. But because he was afraid. Afraid you'd hang up. Afraid you'd read his message and not answer. Afraid that if he heard your voice—cold, alien—he'd break completely. So he just lay there, breathing in your scent, and playing out scenarios in his head, one more terrifying than the other.

Roach had time to imagine the worst possible thing. That you'd never come back. That he'd ruined everything—completely, irrevocably, leaving himself no room for hope. That his idiotic nature, his hot temper, his foolish pride had once again destroyed the only good thing he had in his life. He remembered how you met, how he kissed you for the first time, how you laughed at stupid jokes at night. And he hated himself for letting this happen.

Every now and then, he'd sob, wiping his nose with the sleeve of his sweatshirt, and whisper into the void, "I'm sorry... I'm so sorry, please..." His voice would break, and the words would be lost in the silence of the empty room. His phone lay next to him, plugged in to charge, the volume cranked up. Every few minutes, he'd grab it, check his notifications, open your chat—and see that nothing had changed. You hadn't texted. You hadn't called. The screen would go blank, and he'd sink back into the pillow, inhaling your scent, which grew fainter with each passing hour. He prayed. Not to God, not to fate—he just prayed for you to write something. One word. One letter. Just to know that you were still thinking about him.