Phantoms of light dance across my lids in a tangerine dream, but they flee when the golden morning pries its way into my eyes. I take a deep breath. I smell the remnants of your presence lingering in the air: bacon, coffee, herbal shampoo. The house is quiet except for settling noises, the hum of the refrigerator, the clock ticking, and the wind brushing against the window. It is all quiet. I roll to your side of the bed, wrapping the sheet around me like a caterpillar spinning a cocoon. Your pillow smells like you. I bury my face in it.
— J.L. Riddle