the hallway smells like spilled beer
and cheap perfume.
someone left their shoes by the door—
a pair of red heels,
like they ran out of courage
halfway to leaving.

I sit on the kitchen floor
with the fridge open,
because it’s the only light
that doesn’t feel like it’s judging me.

half a sandwich,
a bottle of ketchup,
some leftover pasta
that no one will eat.
it’s enough to survive,
but not enough to live.

my head still echoes
with the laughter of strangers,
the kind of laughter
that leaves you lonelier
than silence ever could.
everyone seemed to know the script,
their lines smooth as glass,
their smiles the currency of belonging.

but I just stood there
with a drink in my hand,
watching the ice melt
like it had somewhere better to be.

and now it’s just me
and the hum of the fridge,
and a thought I can’t shake:
that maybe,
all those people with their polished lines
and practiced laughs
feel the same way when it’s over.

maybe we’re all just trying
to get through the night
without anyone noticing
the holes in us,
the ones we spend all day
pretending aren’t there.

but then I look at the shoes by the door,
and I know the truth.

some of us
never even try to leave.