Elena sat in the same armchair where they had shared a thousand quiet mornings, but the silence now was heavy, like wet wool. She played the melody of "Abia aștept să nu te mai iubesc" on a loop, the lyrics carving out the hollow space in her chest.
She wasn't mourning him anymore; she was mourning the energy it took to keep his memory alive. Elena sat in the same armchair where they
The rain didn't feel like a metaphor anymore; it was just cold. but the silence now was heavy