I bang on the door. “Blue? Are you in there?” My voice cracks with hope and despair. “Evan? It’s me. If you’re here, please come out and talk to me.” I press my ear to the glass. “Please?”

There’s no sound, no creepy feeling of being watched or listened to. I’m alone standing on a dirty porch, becoming more heartbroken and confused with each passing second. With the last tiny glimmer of hope snuffed out, I reluctantly give up and leave, grabbing Acorn’s bed from the pile on my way out. I don’t want any of that other stuff, but this poor dog deserves to have his own bed.

“Come on, Acorn.” I head toward the car but the dog keeps stopping and looking back at the house, hesitating. “Come on, sweetie. I’m going to take you home.”

It takes me twenty minutes to persuade Acorn to leave the property, even though he’s left with me several times in the past weeks with no problem. Somehow, he knows Blue has abandoned him, and, like me, he seems to be in shocked disbelief, waiting for him to come swaggering down the walkway.

As I drive home, completely numb and emotionally catatonic, I replay last night and this morning in my mind, trying to pinpoint what went wrong, or at what exact moment a goodbye was said that I didn’t catch. Looking back, there were none, and there were many, depending on how I interpret each moment.

I can’t help but wonder if nothing was wrong at all, and he chose to leave when everything was perfect, to suspend us forever like snapshots in a photo album.

When I get home, I realize I don’t have anything I need to care for a dog properly, and I’m not going to continue feeding him part of my meals as Blue did for who knows how long. A dog needs real food, a leash, a brush, and dishes. I drive to the nearest pet store to get everything I need and leave Acorn at my apartment. As I’m browsing through the aisles, I remember the ceramic dishes I bought for Acorn just a few weeks ago, which must be in the pile of stuff on the porch. I can buy new dishes, but those were expensive, and they were special because they have the words ‘my dog rocks’ printed on the side.

Next thing I know, I’m driving over to the abandoned house to retrieve the dishes even though I swore to myself I’d never set foot on that property again. The sun is setting in the distance when I arrive, and I try to fight off the tears and ache in my gut knowing Blue won’t be coming around the corner of the house to greet me. Just as I assumed, the dog dishes are under the tarp with the other items. Shaking my head with a myriad of sadness and frustration, I pull them out and turn to leave, but stop in my tracks when something very odd catches my eye. All the notebooks are neatly stacked again, and I know damn well they weren’t like that when I left earlier.

Am I losing my mind? Or has someone been here?

My heart pumps hard in my chest. For all the time I spent on this property hiding in that shed, I never once saw another person here except for Blue. So either someone’s been in this house the entire time—which seems very unlikely—or Blue has been coming and going in here today, and could possibly still be here.

I race to the door to the kitchen and rattle the locked doorknob, then bang loudly on the door.

“Blue! Are you in there? I swear to God you better come out here and talk to me if you are!” I peer into the window, but I don’t see anyone. “What the hell is wrong with you?” I scream. “I thought you loved me!”

The creaking of the empty birdcages swinging is the only sound.

Mumbling under my breath and with tears falling down my face, I walk to my car and drive away. But I don’t go home, like I should—like a normal person would. Because right now I’m emotionally crushed with a broken heart and I can’t think rationally at all. I drive my car to the next street over, park it in front of someone’s house, and then walk back to the abandoned house in the dark. As quietly as I can, I creep back onto the porch, and hide myself under the tarp, against the side of the house. I pull the down comforter over me to keep myself warm, and the hysterical sobs start all over again because it smells of smoke and sex and us. Memories assault me like a swarm of stinging bees, and there’s absolutely nothing I can do to escape them or not see them, to not feel their pain penetrating deep into my very soul. Closing my eyes does nothing to shield me from visions that are forever burned in my mind.