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The walls were bare, echoing in a way they hadn’t since we moved in. There’s a strange silence to empty rooms — not peace, not absence, but something heavier. Like the air knows what’s no longer being said.
I sat on the floor where the couch used to be. There was a faint imprint on the carpet — the ghost of comfort, or routine, or both. I traced it with my fingers like that would help me remember who I was when I still belonged here.
You don’t realize how much of your identity gets stored in spaces — in chipped mugs and drawer handles, in hallway shadows and the way light used to fall at 4:17 p.m. And when you leave, it doesn’t all come with you. Some parts stay behind, hidden in the corners you forgot to clean.
The real abyss isn’t the fear of what’s next. It’s this:
The stillness between no longer and not yet.
Where memory becomes unreliable, and the self starts to blur.
Everyone talks about the grief of endings, but no one warns you about the silence that follows. The dull ache of being in transition. The version of you that lingers after you've moved on, refusing to admit it’s over.
I stared at the front door a little too long. Maybe hoping the house would ask me to stay.
It didn’t.
But that’s the thing about the abyss.
It doesn’t roar. It waits. Quietly. Beneath the surface of boxes, in the gaps where your reflection used to be. It waits for you to notice the part of yourself that can’t quite follow — the part still curled up in the room you no longer live in.
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