My ribs tap out morse code that I’m unable to transcribe—unable to access.

Maybe it says I miss you, or I’m not coming back.

Or simply it’s telling me to run until I can’t catch my breath—can’t catch a break to get back to sleep, and try to forget about you.

The ceiling fan spins like your excuse—your apologies—used to.

I’ve memorized the rhythmic pattern of collapsing.

Even the faucet drips, longing for someone to hear its cries.

I’ve named the mold in my shower after you.

I thought you should know.

I thought naming it after you would make it easier to clean, but it just sits there, patiently waiting.

I talk to it sometimes.

Ask if you’re still proud of me, or even if you still love me.

It doesn’t answer—it never does.

It stays there.

Quiet. Ugly. Impossible to ignore.

Sometimes I wonder if it’s staying because I keep talking to it—giving it more attention day after day.

Or if I’m rotting too.

I screamed at it last night.

Told it I’m fine, and to leave.

Told it that I missed you, and I didn’t mean to.

I didn’t want to scream—let out all that anger—and scare you away.

The mold—it blinked back in mildew silence, like it knew.

Like you knew.

Like everyone fucking knew.

And now?

I scrub until my hands burn,

and the stain speaks.