The rain hadn't stopped for three days. That was my excuse for staying late at the office — but honestly, I didn't want to go home. Home was just four gray walls and a bed that still smelled faintly of you.
You left two months ago. No note. No fight. Just a silent door click that echoed louder than any scream.
I said it. And the rain stopped.
By the end, I wasn't sure if I was the prisoner or the warden. But when you whispered, “Say my name, and I’ll stay forever,” I didn't hesitate.