My name is Emily. I’m 24, and this past year proved something to me that no one ever wants to learn the hard way: life can fall apart overnight.
Just a year ago, things were ordinary. I was finishing college, working part-time at a small bookstore that smelled like coffee and old paper, and sharing a tiny apartment with my boyfriend, Ethan.
Ethan was more than the man I loved. He was my calm in every storm. When anxiety tightened around my chest, he was the one who loosened it. He told terrible jokes until I laughed. He fixed everything around the apartment with those rough mechanic’s hands that somehow always felt gentle when they held mine.
Then one night, he didn’t come home.
Instead, there was a knock at the door.
When I opened it, two police officers stood there. I still remember the way they looked at me — careful, quiet, almost apologetic.
They barely had to say anything.
Car crash.
Instant.
Just two words, and the life we were building together disappeared.
After that, the apartment stopped feeling like home. Every object became a reminder. His jacket still hung by the door. His favorite mug sat in the sink. The silence inside those rooms felt louder than any noise.
For weeks I moved through life like a ghost. I barely ate. Sleep came in short, restless pieces. Sometimes I curled up on the couch holding one of Ethan’s hoodies, breathing in the fading smell of engine oil and detergent, wishing that somehow the door would open and he would walk back in.
