Three weeks out. The fridge hums. Nothing has changed except everything. It stalks you from the kitchen to the bedroom, reminding you of the space where a body used to be, a voice used to fill the air. You pick up your phone to text them about a stupid meme, your thumb hovering over the name that now feels like a ghost in your contacts, and the wave hits you again. Not a gentle wave. A tsunami. A gut-wrenching, floor-collapsing, can’t-breathe kind of wave that leaves you gasping on the floor of your own life. You’re re-reading texts from a year ago, searching for clues, for the exact moment the fracture began. You’re scrolling through their social media, a masochistic ritual of self-torture, looking for evidence that they are happy, that they are miserable, that they are *something* without you. Each picture is a fresh stab. Each smiling photo with their friends is a confirmation of your deepest fear: you have been forgotten. Your nervous system is a frayed wire, sparking with anxiety at every phantom notification, every car that sounds like theirs. Your chest is a hollowed-out cavern where your heart used to be, and in its place, a