There was no trace of her in the flat, her bedroom devoid of personal belongings. She had taken everything with her when she left; her pictures were gone, hanging on the walls of someone else's flat.
He didn't have many belongings of his own, though he hadn't noticed it before, as her things slowly infiltrated the space. It was obvious now, empty, as it had been for years before she moved in. He used the flat only for sleeping, though even this simply action was difficult as he lay there each night, waves of memories washing over him. He stared at the stars through his window, the stars they had watched together for so long.
Her side of the bed was unoccupied, just as it had been every night since their last fight, the fight that had ended with her lips pressing passionately to his, before she turned and exited the flat. She came back later when he wasn't around to collect her things. He could still feel her, if he tried, could hear her laugh, could smell her perfume. Rose, always.
He closed his eyes, remembering that no, she was with her precious John now, and this flat was empty, empty.
He sighed softly into the cold air, trying to tell himself that he wasn't as empty as the flat around him.
But of course, that wasn't true.