They say there are five stages of grief.

The first is when I wait for you to come home even though it’s 4.37am. I wait for you for a month, and I save portions for your dinner.

The second is when I break all the cups you’ve used. I tear up all the sheets you’ve slept on. I scream at the walls for not warning me.

The third is when I call and say, can we be friends? I cooked your favourite, will you come over for a last supper?

The fourth is when you say no and I finish eating five tubs of ice cream in an hour. It’s when I lay in bed and cry over the clothes you left behind.

The fifth is when I pack up all your things and mail them to her address. I paint the walls. I scrub the floors.

We burnt alive, and I was born out of the flames.