Miles grabbed his keys. He didn’t have a plan, but he had a feeling. He stepped out into the hallway, the beat from the record player still pulsing through the door behind him. He was done with the "gone." He was ready for the "back."
The air in the room was thick with the scent of sandalwood and the lingering static of a dead phone. Miles sat on the edge of his bed, watching the late afternoon sun carve gold stripes across the floorboards. In the kitchen, a half-empty bottle of orange juice sat sweating on the counter. She had left ten minutes ago, or maybe it was an hour. Time tended to stretch and snap whenever they fought. Mac Miller - Dang (feat. Anderson .Paak)
He wandered into the living room and dropped a needle onto a record. The beat kicked in—warm, bouncy, and undeniably rhythmic. It was too happy for his mood, but the groove forced his foot to tap against the hardwood. "Dang," he whispered to the empty walls. Miles grabbed his keys
He could still hear the ghost of the door clicking shut. It wasn't a slam; slams were easy. Slams meant there was still fire. The click was worse. The click was a period at the end of a sentence he wasn't finished writing. He was done with the "gone
He realized he was holding his breath, waiting for the sound of her key in the lock. It was a frantic kind of longing, the kind that makes you want to run down the street in your socks just to catch a glimpse of a familiar coat.