"Once upon a time I was falling in love; Now I'm only falling apart; There's nothing I can do; A total eclipse of the heart"

I stand, nervously, outside the home we share. It's dark. A bright moon illuminates the white siding. I stare at the previously-broken storm door that greeted so many guests over the years. Now, I wonder if I’m another and if I cross the threshold, what will await me? Literal flames? The aroma of fresh kindling?

I exhale and walk up the three concrete steps. I pull open the door that lacks a spring and take notice of the new dark knob and deadbolt lock. With a quiet giggle, I laugh at the circumstances that prompted the hasty change a week ago.

Taking a deep breath, I remember our conversation from earlier in the day when he reassured me he was ready to go, and had been since the morning. He was just waiting on the movers. He sounded proud.

Taking hold of a brand-new key, I unlock the door and step inside. As I switch on an interior light, I gasp. This is not the home I exited in a mad dash nearly a week ago. This is not a home.

A tsunami of emotion engulfs me. Immediately, I see our small hand-me-down white-tiled kitchen table with only two brown suede upholstered chairs – remembering he insisted he take two, apparently the tans ones – pushed against the wall.

A half-filled black trash bag catches my eye. It’s on the floor in front of the sink. Next to it is a large cardboard box containing recyclables. The island, which used to hold of vase of fresh-cut red roses when he offered an apology, now has trash, individual keys, unopened mail addressed to me, and one of my favorite prints of Central Park covered in snow in a broken picture frame.

Entering the living room, which was once a perfect blend of our two styles is now awkwardly decorated. The full-sized blue and white checkered couch remains, with a black streak of sweat from where he rested his head. Ambling over to get a closer look, I also examine the scratch marks that expose the stuffing and realize how much I hate this particular piece of furniture. Its matching loveseat, where I sat without the nasty scars of its counterpart, is gone. A rug, end table, and bookcase remain. His posters have vanished, as well as the TV, its stand, and the video game setups.  

Nervously, I wander down the hallway to see our catch-all room is almost completely empty. What remains is dust, cat litter, and a closet full of hoarded and broken junk. The bedding that once made his futon ridiculously comfortable has been discarded into a pile in the neighboring room, my crafting area. There’s no space to walk there, but plenty of emptiness in the primary bedroom. His newly-purchased king-sized bed is gone, but in its wake is a colony of dust bunnies.

With an audible gasp, I suddenly remember I’m not supposed to be alone.

“Rory?”

“Sweet baby girl?”

“Rory?”

The year-old white Persian cat with one gold and one blue eye should be here. Frantically, I search each room. Then, it clicks. There is no cat tower, nor litter boxes, only kicked-out pebble outlines where they used to be.

A new sense of defeat arises and I text him, “I thought you weren’t going to take the cat.”

“Changed my mind," he replies.