The last to go was the bed.
As the moving workers lifted it off the linoleum floor, he stole a final glance at the bed once intimately shared, now avoided like a plague. Would it end up in the dumps? Or would it be burned in flames?
As if memories could be removed that easily.
He stood up and thanked the strangers as he closed the door behind them. He turned around and paused and took in the image of the apartment before him. Huge, white and empty.
He lay down on the floor, eyes transfixed on the ceiling. No, it is not empty. It was filled with ghosts. Of broken promises and dreams. Of themselves cooking and kissing in the kitchen. Of themselves cuddled together on the sofa, watching a movie on a rainy Saturday night. Of her leaning against the windowsill with a faraway look in her dark brown eyes.
He knew then that it was the beginning of the end. But he could not let her go.
His bitter laugh reverberated throughout the living room. Even right now he was the one picking up the pieces, instead of her. He fisted his shirt in the spot where his heart was. And he was lost in that endless white ceiling.
Suddenly he realised he had unknowingly watched the whole apartment changed from shades of white to gold and orange.
Shit. He quickly stood up to his feet. And he closed the door behind him for one last time.
The last to go was him.