The screen glows, a tiny blue sun in the dark of the bedroom. You promised yourself you wouldn't do this tonight. But the thumb has a mind of its own, a ghost in the machine, and there you are, scrolling through their pictures, a forensic investigator of a life you are no longer a part of. There’s the hollow ache in the center of your chest, the one that wakes you at 3 AM with a gasp, the cold certainty that you are utterly and irrevocably alone. You map the geography of your pain: the tight clench in your jaw, the shallow, constricted breaths, the sickening lurch in your gut every time a car that looks like theirs drives by. You replay conversations, dissecting every word for a clue you might have missed, a sign that could have averted the disaster. You bargain with a God you’re not even sure you believe in, promising to be better, different, anything, if you could just have one more chance. This isn’t just sadness. This is a haunting. A possession. The wound of a severed connection leaves a phantom limb that throbs with memory and longing. And the world, in its well-meaning ignorance,