I knocked on your door, a mixture of anticipation and unease swirling inside me. Six months apart—an eternity shaped by obligation—had left me longing for this moment. I’d imagined it endlessly during the train ride; your arms wrapping around me, your eyes bright with joy. I thought it would be a reunion, a renewal of the life we’d built over the last five years.

But when the door creaked open, the warmth I’d envisioned evaporated.

The scent of unfamiliar cologne clung to the air, sharp and foreign. Your eyes, which I’d hoped would light up, instead darted nervously before hardening. Behind you, a shadow shifted—a man hurriedly gathering his clothes, his face a mix of guilt and panic.

My heart stopped.

Words formed in my throat but refused to emerge. The silence between us grew heavy, suffocating. When you finally spoke, your voice was cold, almost impatient. “Why are you here?” You asked, as though my presence was an inconvenience rather than the homecoming I’d dreamed of.

I searched your face, desperate to find some trace of the person I thought I knew. But the love we’d shared, the memories we’d built, seemed to vanish like smoke. My legs felt rooted to the spot, but my chest burned with the need to escape. Then came the final blow:

“I’ve moved on,” she said, whilst shutting the door behind her.

I turned and fled, my footsteps echoing in the stairwell as tears blurred my vision. Outside, the rain fell in cold sheets, mingling with the hot tears streaming down my face. The city’s hum felt indifferent to my pain as I wandered aimlessly, the memory of your laugh haunting me like a ghost.

In the weeks that followed, I replayed our happiest moments on an endless loop. I thought of the first time I heard your laugh—so unrestrained and infectious that it made strangers in a café smile. That laugh had once been my anchor, a constant in life’s chaos. Now, it was a knife that cut deeper with every recollection.

I tried to bury the pain in routine, immersing myself in work. When that failed, I turned to running, thumping the pavement as if I could outrun the memories. Healing wasn’t a straight path. Some nights, the weight of you pressed down like a storm cloud, your voice on repeat while I’m in the eye of the storm. But other days, I felt a flicker of hope—a glimpse of life beyond you.

One evening, as I jogged through the park, I heard children laughing. It wasn’t your laugh, but it was pure and virtuous, and it softened something inside me. For the first time in weeks, I paused and smiled, letting their joy wash over me.

A month later, I woke to a strange quiet within me. At first, I didn’t understand it. Then I realized:

I couldn’t recall the sound of your laugh.

I sat up, straining to remember its cadence, its warmth, the way it filled a room—but it was gone. The absence felt like a loss, but also a release. The laugh that had tethered me to my grief had slipped away, taking the pain with it.

That day, the world felt sharper. The sky seemed bluer, the air lighter. I walked through the city, noticing the sun’s warmth on my skin for the first time in months.

——————————————

Two weeks later, I returned to the café where I had first fallen for you. The hum of conversation and the clink of cups filled the air. Across the room, a couple laughed, their joy infectious. I didn’t think of you. Instead, I thought of myself and the distance I’d traveled from that moment at your door.

I sipped my coffee, savoring its warmth, and allowed my self to laugh. It wasn’t your laugh; it was mine.

And for the first time in months, I felt free.