vacant.

It's been a week since she was here, soaked from the storm raging outside, worn from the one raging within her. She whined about the rain and the car, and of how long it took to find parking. She cried about the finale of her favorite show and ate the last of my cereal from the cupboard. 

Her clothing was mixed with mine, tossed to the floor in a heap. Steam from the shower fogged the mirror in the bathroom and seeped from the crack at the bottom of the door. I wiped my finger across the glass, scribbling my name over and over while I brushed my teeth at the sink. She dried and redressed, finding her way around the kitchen as if it were her own, brewing coffee and soaking chopped spinach and digging for a clean pan. 

We ate dinner on the patio and laughed over a glass of wine before the smile that had graced her face for most of the morning slipped away. Her eyes welled with tears, her mouth curled inward, trying to escape the emotions forcing their way out. She cried for an hour, her face buried into my chest as I told her how horrible it was to be loved. 

We left the kitchen dirty and used, dinnerware lingering on the countertops, utensils dripping into the sink. She washed her face and went to bed, huddling under the blankets like a bird under its mother's wing. I thought of how much I missed her friendship, of how she'd been so absent lately. She slept across the bed, her back facing me; I counted the freckles on her back like I hadn't hundreds of times and watched as her shoulder slowly dipped with each breath. 

She was up before the sun, streaks of light finding their way to the empty side of the bed where she'd been sleeping. I found her on the patio, murmuring into her cell phone. Her hair was tied up, exposing the yellow bruise that graced the left side of her face. I leaned against the doorframe, listening intently for any sign that she was finished, that it was, as I always told her, horrible to be loved. A giggle found its way from her lips and I knew she'd be gone by the end of the day. I closed my eyes, turning from the hot and humid, air and found myself back among the tousled sheets of my unkempt bed.

When she made her way back inside, I pretended to sleep. She slipped back into the bed and sighed. I could almost hear the smile that stretched across her lips. 

A few hours later I found her in the bathroom, packing her toothbrush and nail polish into her pack and avoiding my glances. She smiled and hummed, shoving her belongings into the suitcase that had found a home in the corner of the room far too many times for me to count. I forced the feelings from my face, supported her decisions as I always had, and hugged her as she walked out the door. 

That evening I found myself on the patio overlooking the city, the humid air sticking to my skin like a second layer. On the table was the sweater she'd worn last night, when her world wasn't pieced together and I was the shoulder she cried on. Last night, when he was still the bad guy and the bruise that graced her left eye burned and ached with the sadness she felt. Last night, before he found the words to fill her vacant ears and force the smile back to her face. I sat and wondered when I'd see her again. I wondered what part of her would be damaged or broken or missing the next time she made her way to my door.