You know when a sound just… stops? And the silence that rushes in feels heavier than anything that came before? Like after a car horn blares and then it’s just… gone. That’s what it’s like now, every single night, after the door finally clicked shut on an empty apartment. I mean, I spent years praying for a moment of quiet, just a few minutes where I wasn't being pulled in a thousand directions, and now it’s here, and I want to throw something, ANYTHING, just to hear it shatter. I keep walking past her room, thinking I’ll hear her hum-singing, or the little thud of her books, and it’s just… hollow. And I hate it. I hate that I want to fill it with noise again, even though I swore I needed it gone.