The sun will soon rise. I flip from one side to the other trying to find comfort. My knee hits the laptop that rests in its new home on the right side of the bed where you’d fall asleep before me every night. Pushing the electronics further to what used to be your side of the bed remind me I’m alone again.

Your scent still lingers on the sheets. More proof that your arms used to snuggle me in the place that’s now vacant. The laughter that once echoed off the walls has been replaced by a haunting silence. In hindsight your incessant snoring doesn’t seem so bad after all. Insomnia is my new best friend.

My bed is my sanctuary from the weariness of the ways of the world, but lately it’s a pestering reminder of another failed relationship, of being alone again. The act of undressing, wiping off the day’s makeup and climbing into bed brings about questions without answers. Do I really miss you or am I just lonely? Is it being used to your presence that I miss or your absence?

There is a difference.

Spring is here. The season of bloom. Days pass by seamlessly. Nights get easier. Sleep still eludes me, but aloneness feels ok.

Some nights I switch it up, letting the iPad and MacBook rest on my desk instead of next to me. I undress and let the duvet cover warm my body. Your scent no longer greets me. I lie on my stomach before facing the window. I’ve convinced myself I’ll be happy and fulfilled if I have to live the rest of my life with the right side of the bed empty. Because at 32 it’s a hard truth one must reconcile with.

One rainy night I stared at the ceiling listening to the water hit my window sills. I had an answer to those pesky questions. I miss you only because I’m lonely. I stayed when I should’ve left because I’m lonely. I blame the loneliness of the city for why we were together when we were doomed from the start. And I blame the loneliness of the city for why we held on too long.

I stretch out my arm across the gaping space on what’s no longer your side of the bed. The sun is beginning to light the sky. I close my eyes, but I don’t fall asleep.