Fifth Floor; Acceptance

Nowadays

I couldn't wait to finally get home, open a bottle of wine, sink into a tub of steaming hot water, and just let myself drift — after a long and exhausting day, that was the bare minimum I deserved.

"I'm home!" I called out to my fiancé as I stepped through the door.

I slipped off my beige coat and kicked off my black heels with a tired motion. My keys landed on the small table by the door with a soft jingle.

I walked further in, but the living room stood empty and hollow. I hurried to the kitchen—no one there either. I slid my bag off my shoulder and made my way quickly toward the bedroom. The bed was untouched, the room exactly as I'd left it that morning. As if life hadn't moved inside it at all.

Maybe he's in the bathroom, I thought.

But silence and emptiness greeted me there too.

Is he working late? He never does. Did something come up? He would've told me. Maybe he had an accident? No — someone would've contacted me by now.

A thousand questions shot through my mind. My heart pounded in my throat, my breathing turning shallow.

Then the realization hit me like an icy downpour.

Lucas had moved back to his old apartment last night.

"That's not possible..." I muttered to myself. "Or is it?"

My stomach shrank to the size of a pea. Covering my mouth with my hand, I slid down along the wall as the weight of reality pressed down on me.

Memories flooded my mind.

He had welcomed me home with a warm dinner after work. Everything had been fine. We even watched a movie. And then...

Then I said something I probably shouldn't have — just a comment about the show we were watching. He got upset and now I can admit, rightfully so. And then he said he couldn't keep doing this anymore. That he was moving back. He grabbed his bag, threw in a few things, and simply walked out the door.

Without looking back.

I didn't blame him. Lately, it's true — we'd been arguing a lot.

"It's my fault," I whispered in horror as it all settled in. I had meant it as a joke. I hadn't been serious. But somehow, I managed to hurt him with it. To push him away.

How could I have been such an idiot?

I wiped my tears away, forced myself to stand up from the floor, adjusted my light floral dress, and rushed out of the apartment.

I have to talk to him. I have to apologize.

I ran down the stairwell and out into the street. As if it sensed my emotional state, the weather suddenly broke into a violent downpour. Rain poured from the sky as if it were releasing an entire year's worth of sorrow onto me at once.

But I didn't care.

Not about my dress clinging to my skin. Not about my soaked shoes. Not about the water streaming from my hair.

I just ran. Without stopping. With only one destination in mind: the door of his apartment.

That night, they both died — but only one of their hearts stopped beating.