Jean stirs in his sleep. He rolls on his right side. "Good Morning Sa-…" he mumbles.
Just as he wants to draw the person next to him closer, he realizes that there is no one. His eyes flutter open. "-sha".
The other side of the bed cold and empty, the sheets neatly folded.
"Damn," Jean says as he sits up. He hadn't thought about her since she moved out a week ago. Actually it doesn't even bother him anymore.
Or at least he tries to convince himself about that.
When he gets in the kitchen he half expects her to stand there making breakfast for them both only wearing one of his shirts, grinning at him. But his small grey kitchen remains grey, not lit up by her shining presence, her sparkling eyes or her radiant smile. Well, he can make breakfast for himself. He's grown up. He can toast his toast, he can smear butter on it. He can't make pancakes, but who the hell wants pancakes for breakfast anyway. Especially HER fluffy pancakes with blueberries in it. He does clearly not.
Jean is okay with the breakup, though. Now he doesn't have to watch all her… What was she playing again? Anyway, it was boring. And reading the sports section in his local newspaper is just out of habit. Certainly not to see if her volleyball team won. Absolutely not!
Marco told him he heard Sasha say that Jean will never manage living without her.
"Ridiculous!" Jean spits, as he fumbles around his badly burned toast, "I can manage my life well with or without her."
While he chews slowly his gaze wanders around the flat. There's dust on the shelves. His unwashed clothes lie scattered on the floor. A week ago the apartment wasn't spotless, but still neat and tidy.
"The genius reigns over the chaos. I'm feeling comfortable. VERY comfortable. After all that's MY apartment. I don't need the hand of a women in here," He thinks while he uneasily shifts on his chair, but his mind doesn't stop there.
It didn't stop there the whole last week. The thoughts travel further. Did she regret breaking up? Did she struggle over it? Did she realize that he didn't mean to…
Jeans thoughts are abruptly interrupted when he hears the lock of his front door clicking.
The brown haired boy shuffles out of the kitchen to see who could possibly disturb him on a Sunday morning. His eyes widen: A brown haired, hazel eyed girls stands in front of him. She wears an oversized green hoodie as a dress. He remembers that he bought it for her.
"Sasha! What are you doing here? Why-"
Sasha cuts him short, "Sorry for coming. I just wanted to give this to you." She hands him a washed, ironed and folded shirt. "I don't know why I still had it. I figured I should give it back to you."
Jean takes the shirt from her trying not to touch her hands. He knows exactly why she had it. This t-shirt was his favourite as well as hers, so he let Sasha wear it all the time. What a good boyfriend he was.
The whole time she averts her eyes.
"How did you get here? By bus? If you said something I would have-"
Sasha interrupts him again, "I didn't want to trouble you. Connie offered me to drive me here. He waits in the car."
Jean couldn't stop the angry feeling building up in his chest. "Ah, I see… Connie," He says bitterly as he crosses his arms.
The brown haired girl flashes her eyes angrily at him It was the first time she really looked at him standing there only in pyjama trousers and hair that hadn't been washed in three days. "Yes, Connie. Don't bring this topic again, Jean. We spoke about it again and again and again and again. He is a friend of mine. Nothing more, nothing less. Okay?"
Now it is Jean's turn to avert his eyes, "Yeah, yeah. A friend. I know."
A moment of silence rises between them. Sasha's quiet whisper breaks through it. "I must go now, Jean, I have a game. Goodbye." Her voice is soft, fragile now. It seems like she struggles to keep her emotions together.
"Bye," Jean says, but the door already clicks shut.
Trance-like the boy stumbles into the living room. He slumps on the sofa. Just as he raises the shirt Sasha bought to his nose something tiny falls loudly clattering to the ground. His mind can't grasp what lies in front of him so he has to look twice. A silver key. Sasha hid it in his shirt. She gave him the keys to their… his apartment back. She will never enter again like she did so many times.
He finally sniffs the fabric. It smells not like her. The scent he breathed in so many nights was gone. It is replaced with the smell of a cheap washing powder.
The shirt glides out of his grip.
Jean buries his face in his hands.
A sob escapes his lips.
"I miss you Sasha"