You're not used to an empty bed, your body tangled in the comforter with your legs wrapped desperately around the body pillow that's doing nothing to fill the void she's left you with. The sheets feel itchier than they ever have even though she insisted on buying the 1,000 thread-count Egyptian cotton set that was insanely overpriced. The pillows don't smell like her even though you've been using her body wash and shampoo every night since she left six days ago, the scents not quite mixing the way it does on her. You're not used to this.
It's only a week, she said, and so you agreed because who are you to hold her back? But if you knew then what you know now, if you knew how much it'd hurt to fall asleep alone every night, your body curled up and shivering underneath the covers tightly wound around yourself, you'd tell her to stay. And maybe that'd make you sound pathetic, a little clingy per se, but you aren't sure if you can handle the empty void that's beginning to settle in the pit of your stomach.
It's only a week, you remind yourself. One more day to get through and she'll be home and this will all just be a bad dream and everything will be back to normal.
You're locking up the radio station when she calls you, your ringtone nearly scaring you half to death as you feel your heartbeat start to race, though you can't tell if it's because you were caught off guard or because seeing her name flash across your cellphone's screen still makes you weak in the knees.
"Hello?" You know it's her on the other line but you've always worn casualty like an old sweater.
"It's me." She sounds tired, her voice not as cognizant as it always is. You wonder how many cups of coffee it takes just for her to get through the day.
"I miss you." She knows this but you say it anyway, hoping it'll make her come home sooner.
"I miss you too." You already know that but she says it anyway because she can feel you overthinking (even if she is hundreds of miles away) and you need the reassurance to prove you're still sane. "Court was a bitch yesterday."
"Yeah?" You have to remind yourself that there's an eight-hour time difference between Atlanta and Moscow.
"The defense kept a witness on the stand for almost two hours."
"Isn't that illegal?" You aren't even sure what the court laws are like here in the States, let alone in Russia.
"I don't even know but the judge allowed it." You can tell she's frustrated so you drop it.
"You getting ready for work right now?"
She mumbles indistinctly into the phone and you can almost picture her balancing on one foot as she slips on her heels, her phone wedged between her shoulder and her ear.
"I bet you look sexy as hell today." You can hear her sigh into the phone and immediately regret your choice of words. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said that."
"It's fine." It's not. "I have to go, my colleagues are waiting for me in the lobby to debrief yesterday before we get to the courthouse." The pit in your stomach gets a little bigger and you feel like you might throw up.
"Okay. Have a good day at work, Bree. I love you."
"Love you too." The line clicks and you're left staring at your phone.
You don't realize you're crying until the tears fall down your face, leaving salty trails as they find their path across your cheekbones. You aren't used to this either, instead opting to suppress any emotion years ago when your father left and you swore you'd never cry again. You aren't used to carrying such a heavy heart, the weight alone enough to bring you to your knees. You drag your feet across the pavement, willing yourself to at least make it back to the apartment before completely falling apart. It's foolish, you think, to be crying in the first place; since when did you turn into such a lovesick puppy? She's got you though, hook, line, and sinker. And you aren't used to being alone.
By the time you reach the apartment complex, you don't feel anything anymore. The tears have dried up and your chest hurts from the cold air and the anxiety that threatened to envelop you as you trudged home. You laugh sardonically at the thought of what you must look like; pathetic doesn't even begin to describe it. You don't bother to shower, choosing instead to scrub your face raw and climb into bed, not that it provides any solace.
You try to remember what it's like having her there with you, her hand running the length of your spine, tender enough to remind you that she's head over heels in love with you. You remember how she used to trace letters into your skin, making you guess the vocabulary word she spelled before spouting off a definition you never bothered to try and comprehend. You remember how you flinched every time she grazed the spot in the center of your back, how she'd do it on purpose so you'd nestle yourself closer to her in hopes that it would stop her from teasing you. You remember how whenever she was feeling particularly content, she'd kiss the nape of your neck once, feathery light and absolutely perfect. And you knew in those moments that she cared.
Trying to remember isn't the same, though, and it's still only you in bed, curling yourself around the body pillow and tangling yourself in the sheets.
You're woken by movement and something pressed against your cheek for a brief moment. It's much too early and you're still exhausted from last night's events so you think nothing of it, adjusting your position before drifting back to sleep. It doesn't last very long; you feel an arm thrown haphazardly across your waist and suddenly you're wide awake, torn between running out of the room and punching the intruder in the face. The moment of hesitation is enough for her to link her hand with yours, bringing it up to her lips for a chaste kiss before telling you to go back to sleep.
You're not used to an empty bed and she knows that, her arm wrapped tightly around you as she buries her face into your shoulder, brushing her lips across your bare skin.