There I lay, naked on the floor, snuffling in the moonlight, feeling already the pain of his inevitable departure, my tears running wetly. Dawn arrived; I could just make out the cheery contours of the furniture. My limbs ached; pain ripped my head slowly, jaggedly into two. Tears and mucus crusted my face and neck. All night he had been still and silent in the bed, while I, on the floor, made noise.

The sheets hissed as he stirred. I watched as he rose, strode to the closet, and took out the largest suitcase. His legs were all that were visible to me—his long, slender legs, graceful ankles, smooth hip, agonizing thigh. He emerged, all in view, but the dried mucus on my eyelids made it difficult to see. His face was, as usual, so still. He took his books from the table; his papers he laid on top of the clothes in the suitcase. He crossed the room in silence and leaned over me, looked directly at me for the first time since the night before. He so seldom looked at me.

“I have to go now.” His face was as if built in some ecstatic vision. His fine, pale hair softened its planes slightly. “I have to go now. I cannot stay anymore.”

I could have spoken, reached out, and grabbed his foot. Instead I listened to his soft footsteps, the door as it closed, his feet light and quick on the stairs.

I died without death at the end. No end for my pain. “Gone!” roared my blood. “Gone!” shrieked the air in my lungs. “Blank! Empty!” Each hollow cell of my brain echoed a tinny chorus.