The wallpaper in the bedroom was peeling.
Daniel hadn't noticed it before—or maybe he had, and just didn't care. But now, in the merciless light of morning, it was impossible to ignore. A long, jagged strip near the headboard had come loose, curling away from the wall like a leaf drying in the sun.
Lila would have fixed it immediately. She was like that—unable to let small imperfections go. A crooked picture frame would bother her for days until she adjusted it. A squeaky door hinge would drive her to dig out the WD-40 at midnight. Now, the apartment was full of tiny breakdowns she wasn't here to mend.
He reached out and pressed his palm against the peeling paper, as if he could glue it back with sheer will. It didn't stick.
His phone buzzed. Claire again.
"I'm coming over. We need to talk."
He didn't respond. Instead, he walked to the living room, where Lila's plants were dying.
She had loved those plants—ferns, succulents, a stubborn orchid that refused to bloom until she sang to it (a ridiculous habit that had made him laugh). Now, their leaves were brown and brittle, curling in on themselves like fists. He hadn't watered them since she died. Part of him wanted to see how long it would take for them to give up entirely.
The doorbell rang.
Claire didn't wait for him to answer. A key turned in the lock, and then she was standing in the doorway, her coat dripping rainwater onto the floor. Her eyes swept over him, the apartment, the dying plants.
"Jesus, Dan," she whispered.
He didn't say anything.
She stepped inside, shutting the door behind her. "You can't keep doing this."
"Doing what?" His voice was rough from disuse.
"This." She gestured at the room—the dust on the shelves, the dishes piled in the sink, the empty chair where Lila used to sit. "You're just… waiting to die."
The words hung in the air between them, sharp and undeniable.
Daniel turned away. "I'm fine."
Claire grabbed his arm, forcing him to look at her. "No. You're not."
And just like that, the dam broke.