He looked at the open window. A breeze drifted in, carrying the sound of the city and the faint smell of rain. He didn't want to lose her to the wind. He didn't want her to become just another song he couldn't skip because it hurt too much to listen.

The air in the room was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the lingering static of a dead phone. Miles sat on the edge of his bed, watching the late afternoon sun carve gold stripes across the floorboards. In the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of orange juice sat sweating on the counter. She had left ten minutes ago, or maybe it was an hour. Time tended to stretch and snap whenever they fought.

He could still hear the ghost of the door clicking shut. It wasn't a slam; slams were easy. Slams meant there was still fire. The click was worse. The click was a period at the end of a sentence he wasn't finished writing.