She rested her stinging cheek against the cool tiles of the bathroom wall. There was a relief, like rubbing vaseline on an open wound. She closed her eyes and heard the hum of the air filter, quickly unfogging the small space from her scalding shower.

She knew that when she opened the door, she wouldn’t see his navy blue sheets tucked neatly around his full bed, or the breathtaking view from his wide window onto the river, or him in his black boxers, laying back on the brown leather couch, waiting for her head to replace the book in his hands.

She would feel the unpleasant shock of the frigid AC as soon as she stepped onto the old green carpet of her new, borrowed room. She had become hyperaware of how permanent her goosebumps felt now. He was her only warmth, her only home.

Before the thoughts could overtake her again, she abruptly stood up and ran out to the worn, antique dresser. She opened the top drawer and quickly slipped on his familiar, oversized white t-shirt that she had yet to wash. She jumped under the blinding white bedsheets of her new, king-sized, four-poster bed. She curled up, hugging her knees to her chest, unable to keep her body heat from dissipating quickly. As was usual for the past two weeks, she shivered until her body ran out of energy to keep her eyes open. She hoped for a never-ending sleep. She was only at home in her dreams.