I should probably get used to waking up with the feeling that someone slipped out of my room before the sun did. Not the sound of footsteps or the click of a door—no. This is different. It’s the sensation of absence that only exists because there was presence first. The kind that lingers in the air, heavy and warm, like a blanket pulled away too gently to wake you, but not gently enough to go unnoticed. I wake with my body already aware, my chest tight with the certainty that I was not alone last night.