Apartment Still Smells Like Her

I moved out. The apartment kept her.

Six months we lived together, in a flat with one bathroom, a radiator that clanked all night, and a bedroom window that overlooked a chip shop. Romantic, right?

Her name was Zara. She'd leave her hair ties on every surface. I used to complain about it. I'd give anything to find one now.

We broke up on a Sunday, because we were both too tired to keep pretending. No drama. She just said, "I think we love each other, but not in the way that works." And I nodded like I understood.

She took her stuff in two trips. I helped carry the boxes. That's the weirdest part. I helped her leave.

Last week, my lease ended. I went back for a final walk-through. The place was empty. Echoey. The landlord said, "Strange, nobody's cleaned this place yet, and it still smells like candles."

Her candles. Fig and something warm. She burned them every night while I played FIFA.

I stood in the empty bedroom and breathed in. Just once. Just to remember.

Then I found something taped inside the wardrobe. A tiny sticky note, in her handwriting.

"You'll be fine. Eat something green."

She wrote it before she left. She knew I'd forget.

I'm sitting on a mattress in a new flat right now, 2 AM, eating a salad.

I hate that she was right.