The alarm rings, pulling me from sleep. I groggily reach for it, my fingers knocking into the clutter on the bedside table. It falls to the floor, silencing itself on impact. Still, it had done its job—I’m awake. I open one eye. 5:15 AM. A moment later, I open the other. It’s time to get up.

I shuffle to the kitchen, my long pajamas trailing behind me. The refrigerator hums faintly, but its light is dead. It’s an old model, one we bought secondhand when we didn’t have the money for anything better. Back then, it was enough. Now, its flaws are starting to wear on us. I grab a bottle of cold water and pause, my hand hovering over the drawer of glasses. I decide against it. I’m alone anyway—why bother? I drink straight from the bottle.

Cold water rolls down my throat, sharp and biting, until it hits my lungs with a sting. It hurts, but it doesn’t come close to the pain of everything else that’s happened.

The train leaves at 8:00. I have time for a shower, time to reconsider, maybe even time to back out if he calls me. As I pass the bedroom, my eyes land on the packed suitcase, the laptop bag, and my black coat. Soon, I’ll pull it on—Mark’s coat.

Mark was the man of my life. Forty years old, with piercing green eyes and tousled brown hair. We met back in 2012, but it wasn’t until a seminar in Brussels that we really got to know each other.

We fell in love, and until recently, I was the happiest woman alive. I loved his scent, the feel of his skin, the way his clear eyes seemed to hold every answer.

It’s 6:30 now. I start dressing, slowly, knowing I’ll need time to reach the train station. We never said everything that needed to be said, but I have to go. I don’t want to watch the sun rise—don’t want to see another morning breaking. I just want to hear the phone ring. I want to hear the doorbell, the sound of a car pulling up outside.

More than anything, I want to hear, “Don’t go.”