The day she left, the light went out. Not a flicker, not a dimming, just gone. Black. Like the coffee he drinks now, straight and bitter, no trace of sweetness. Now the cup sits untouched, cooling. No sugar. And no her. The apartment still smells like her perfume or maybe it’s just his mind playing tricks, conjuring ghosts in the empty spaces she once filled. Time doesn’t heal. It just stretches, thin and relentless, a road leading nowhere. He stares at the walls. The world moves on, but he’s stuck in the last moment she was his, replaying it like a record with a deep scratch always skipping back to the same jagged edge. Black. No light. No sugar. No sweetness left. No you. Just the echo of what was, and the unbearable weight of what’s missing.