He got home around 8 pm and walked to the kitchen, almost mechanically. He put water to boil while he picked one of the two identical mugs kept in the cabinet. His eyes kept drifting as he made himself coffee and walked to the couch, forgetting the sugar as usual.
It had been two weeks since she killed herself and it still hadn't settled in his head. How can someone that you have known for more than a decade, just not exist anymore? He sipped from his cup and resisted the urge to spit out the coffee. He never drank coffee without sugar but today, he was too tired to get up again. "Maybe I don't deserve sugar in my coffee." he thought and took another sip. The curtains at the balcony danced slowly, to the grey evening breeze and he stared, unblinkingly. The curtains, almost a dreamlike hypnosis taking him back to memories. Memory, of their room at midnight and the black-blue bruises at her back. "I didn't mean to hurt you like this. I just... I am sorry." he had said. She was expressionless when he hugged her, as if she was dead already. He gasped as he looked away from the dancing curtains, breathing short breaths. It wasn't the first time that he was feeling guilty. He always felt sorry after every argument, every bruise and every time she screamed out of pain.
Before she died, she took the time to gather all the letters they had written to each other, old dried flowers, the dress she wore on their first date and all little memories that reminded of the happy times they spent together and arranged all of it on their bed. What did she mean by doing so? Maybe she wanted him to remember her by all the good memories or maybe, she wanted to taint those memories with what she was about to do so that no matter what he thinks of, he is always reminded of this.
He frantically got up and drained his coffee in the kitchen sink. The memories haunt him, even the good ones. It never was clear why she decided to **** herself and if it was because of him or not but either way, he was guilty.