Aftermath

Her hair was everywhere. Every goddamn piece of clothing he unfolded (clean or not) had a strand or two of her hair. Her fucking hair. When he got into bed at night, sometimes he found that his toes were tangled together with a single strand of her hair. And when he went to take a shower, all her saw was her smile as she undressed and told him to join her. And remembered how nervous he was to be that intimate with someone. When he brushed his teeth, he sometimes accidentally picked up her green toothbrush instead of his blue one and it drove him crazy. He always promised to himself that he would throw it away, but whenever he made a move to do so, her fucking toothbrush only ever ended up back in the holder, right next to his. Where it belonged. He kept it just in case.

In the middle of sleep, he would sometimes catch her scent on freshly washed sheets and would reach over to hook his arm around her waist. But instead, he woke up holding the pillow he had used to replace her. Not that it could. Not that anything ever fucking could.