I sigh as I close the fridge, sloshing the half-finished wine bottle in my hand. I trudge my way over to the scratched leather couch, where my imprint is so heavily known on the old worn cushions. I slouch for a bit, watching my chest heave up and down with every heavy breath that my body manages to take. In and out, In and out, my mind focuses on only just my breathing, not wanting to think of anything else. One of the three smudged wine glasses resting on my coffee table catch a glint from the flickering light bulb up above. I grab a glass and pour it full of the red and toxic beverage. My eyes scan the room, the room that was once so bright, once so full of color and love. The light bulbs have been flickering for weeks, nobodies changed them. The coffee table smudged with fingerprints and coffee stains. The kitchen, not a pot or pan washed in days. The whole room, the entire apartment was cold and drab. I grab at my hair, stringy and greasy to the touch, and pull it back. Slowly getting up to make my way across this living room to go into the next room, my toe stubs at the table. A single small glint of a tear rolls down my eye as I sit on the left side of the bed. The left side of the bed has been untouched for months, not a single crease or line in the sheets. Nobody’s been in this bed, not him, and not even me. My body had gotten used to the hard rough cushions on the couch, I promised myself wouldn’t sleep in the bed until he came back to me, until he came home. I grab for the picture frame, which was turned down on the bedside table. It was a picture of me, a picture of him, surrounded by leaves and pumpkins just a year ago in autumn. I would give anything to return to this moment, to be there instead of here. I try not to think too much as I pull a hoodie over my pale and frail body, grab my keys, and head over to the hospital which he, as well as I, have learned to call our home recently.