Mornings were brutal. Actually, scratch that. Nights were worse. But mornings… they had this sick way of pretending things were fine. You wake up, and for a second, maybe two, you forget. You reach for the space that used to be filled. And then, boom. Reality. Like a slap. Ella sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor. The couch felt too clean. She didn’t want clean. She wanted messy, broken, grimy. Like her insides. It wasn’t just about him. Or maybe it was. But it felt bigger. Like she was grieving… what? The life she thought they’d have? The dumb vacations they planned but never took? The stupid fights over IKEA…