DESPERATE & DIVINE

30. The Ache Deepens

PART TWO.

The morning after Leah left, the air clung to me like a suffocating weight, heavy and unrelenting. It was like the atmosphere itself had thickened, pressing in from every direction. I hadn't slept. I don't think I could even if I wanted to. My mind wouldn't stop—the argument, her words, the way we unravelled—it plays over and over like a nightmare I can't wake from. This is the kind of heartbreak that doesn't let you escape, doesn't even give you room to breathe.

The bed is a cavernous void without her. Cold where she used to be. The silence is unbearable, an emptiness that fills every inch of the room, every corner of me. I can still smell her on the pillow, like she's only just slipped out of reach. But she's left. The space beside me is a reminder that she isn't coming back. And the pain? It's so sharp, so consuming, that I can barely stand it. I can't draw a full breath without feeling it tear through me.

I don't want to move. Getting up feels like admitting she's really gone. But staying here, in this bed, in this silence, just amplifies the ache. The sunlight creeping through the curtains feels wrong, like the world should've stopped when she walked away. Even the sounds of the city outside are distant, muted—everything was louder, brighter, when she was here. Now, it's just me, and the weight of it is unbearable.

Food is pointless. Water is pointless. My body is numb, but inside, there's this scream that won't stop. I just want her back. I just want her.

My hands shake as I grab my phone, trying to call her again. It rings, and every time it goes to voicemail, it's like another knife in my chest. "Leah, please," I whisper, my voice breaking, "just call me back. I'm sorry. I need you. I miss you." The line goes dead, just like every other time.

I text her, desperate. The words blur on the screen, none of them feeling right, none of them enough to undo the damage. But I send them anyway, hoping she'll see, hoping something will break through.

I'm sorry.

Please, can we just talk again?

I love you. I'm so lost without you.

But there's nothing. Just this awful silence. Not even a hint that she's read them. Just emptiness. I can feel the panic rising, tightening my chest until I feel like I might collapse under it. I can't breathe. I can't think. She's gone, and I don't know how to handle it.

Every part of me aches for her—my bones, my skin, my soul. I miss her laugh, her voice, the way she'd quietly take my hand or press her lips to my forehead when she thought I wasn't paying attention. Every memory is like a ghost, haunting me, and the more I remember, the more it tears me apart from the inside.

I try to stand, but my legs feel weak, like they might give out. Somehow, I make it to the bathroom and splash cold water on my face, but it does nothing to shake this. I stare at myself in the mirror, and the person looking back at me is shattered, unrecognisable. This version of me without her feels like a stranger.

I pick up my phone again, scrolling through old photos of us. Every picture stabs deeper, a reminder of what was and what's gone. There we are, laughing, holding each other, her smile so bright it lit up everything around her. And now it's all just... gone. Just memories slipping through my fingers, and no matter how hard I try, I can't get them back.

I want to scream, to cry, to do anything that might release this crushing pain, but all I can do is sit here. Sit in the quiet, in the wreckage of what we said, in the aftermath of losing her. And wait.

Wait for a reply that may never come.

Wait for a miracle that I know deep down isn't going to happen.