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Part 1

*Fic will be entirely in Zee's POV

April 24, 2019

I wake up to the same pain, same empty feeling whenever I reach for the space beside me just to realize you're not there. Not now, not ever. I wish to never wake up. To just continue sleeping, because in my dreams is where you'll only be.

Don't worry babe, I'm still breathing, but barely living.

I count the days, 7 days and 13 hours. It's been that long since you left and that long since I started living like a zombie. I don't bother checking the time anymore, I just work and work. I don't mind exhausting myself over piles of paper works or going home late. What's waiting for me there - cold, dark and lonely apartment.

Sometimes I find myself walking home from work. 50 minutes isn't too much. It exhausts me so it's fine. But most of the time, during my walks, I find myself walking not towards home, but towards your grave. I talk to you though I know you won't answer. You never will. But I still do. I wish those movies about time travels are real.

I want to turn back time.

Just once..so I can save you.

****

11:30 pm

I arrive home just as exhausted as I was the previous nights but earlier. I guess fatigue has taken over so I decided to go home early.

I plop down on the bed not caring whether I'm still wearing my coat and shirt that stink from sweat or that my socks are still on.

Saint will definitely get angry when he sees me lying on our bed with my socks on.

My lips curl into a bitter smile.

He hates seeing me crying. He said it isn't manly and that I look ugly. But my eyes automatically water whenever I arrive home.

The whole place reminds me of him, of our memories. Every corner and space of the house has Saint's imprint on them, his notes on the refrigerator – the ugly scribbles that I didn't bother to decipher again (I tried once and they just gave me a massive headache), the decayed flowers in the vase in the living room which I haven't thrown away because Saint was so happy when he got them (from me) and the stacks of photo albums in the book shelf which contain pictures of us carefully put together according to dates with sweet notes stuck to them. Saint is such a sentimental person.

I roll on my side facing the space he used to occupy – images of him come flashing....

Maybe he's still here, maybe he hasn't gone up to heaven yet. Maybe something miraculous will happen and tomorrow he'll be alive again – the same mean Saint that wakes me up in the morning with his horrible loud alarm clock placed at the far side of the room. He'll be by the door again hands on his waist smiling and waiting for me to scramble up on my feet and kill the fucking alarm clock.

And then he'll kiss me after that telling me that breakfast is ready and that if I don't hurry there will be no mango slushy for me.

"God, I miss your cruelness too."

My lips quiver as I suppress another surge of emotion. I've been crying for a week and my eyes are still producing tears. I bury my face on his pillow hoping to somehow calm myself with his scent.

8 days and 1 minute.

I let out a pained chuckle.

'Don't worry nong I'm still breathing....... but I feel like dying.'

****

I wish to not wake up and just continue dreaming of you. But no, the alarm goes off. My hand reaches for it atop the nightstand but I catch nothing but air. My brows furrow. Did I knock it down when I was sleeping?