What Was Left Behind

Morning arrived without a sound.

There was no sound of Owen’s footsteps in the kitchen. No bubbling of water, no faint clink of a cup being placed down as if afraid to disturb the silence. The apartment felt clean—too clean—so that the emptiness became almost tangible.

Ailine stood in the center of the living room, staring at the sofa that had marked the boundary between her and Owen the night before. Everything appeared the same, yet nothing felt whole.

She walked slowly toward the kitchen.

A cup still sat in its place. The cup Owen had used last night. Ailine gazed at it for a long moment before brushing her finger along its rim. Cold. Unused for a long time.

For some reason, her chest tightened.

“Owen’s trace…” she whispered.

She inhaled deeply, then exhaled softly. There were no tears like the night before. Not yet. She only felt as if someone had awakened too quickly from a dream she was still entitled to linger in for a moment longer.

“So… you really left,” she murmured.

Ailine turned her face away. She did not want to look any longer. She did not want to give herself the chance to collapse on a morning that should have been ordinary.

“I was left by him before, and now… again. I should not feel anything, as I have no real attachment. We were only friends… yet…”

She clutched her chest. The pain was sharp, unbearable.

“Why does this room feel so empty? Was it always this desolate?”

For the second time, Ailine realized something she had always known deep down: being abandoned by someone who is still alive hurts far more than a definitive farewell.

“Owen has barely filled this space, yet he always manages to leave traces everywhere…”

She then walked to her bedroom, standing before the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes puffy, yet her back remained straight. She smoothed her hair gently, as if the act could help her appear composed.

“I must not falter. I survived before, even when I was half-crazy… this time must be the same, mustn’t it?” she whispered to her reflection.

If Owen chose to leave for reasons she could not understand, then she would choose to endure—alone if necessary.

---

The hospital corridor smelled of antiseptic.

The white lights blazed mercilessly, too bright, too honest. There was no place to hide here. No shadow deep enough to shelter one’s emotions.

Owen stood before the morgue, his posture rigid, his expression calm. Too calm for a man who had just lost his mother.

A thin folder of documents rested in his hands. His fingers were steady, unshaken.

From the beginning, he had known this day would come.

Since the first day his mother had lain in a coma in that hospital bed, Owen had prepared himself. He had told everyone—most importantly, himself—that they must be ready for the moment when God called.

And now, that call had come.

He did not cry.

Not because he was not sad. Not because he was unscathed. But because he had long learned one truth: as the eldest son, as the older brother, he could not afford to break first.

Footsteps hurried down the corridor.

“Brother—!”

Elliot Young, Owen’s only younger brother, had taken a five-hour train journey to reach the hospital.

The boy ran toward him, his face pale, his eyes red, his breaths ragged. Upon seeing Owen standing there, Elliot froze as if his legs had lost their strength.

“Mother…?” His voice quivered. “Is this… true?”

Owen turned slowly. His gaze was gentle, yet there remained a distance—a space he maintained carefully, so he would not crumble.

“Yes,” he said softly. “Mother has passed.”

The words were simple. Far too simple for something that should have torn one’s chest apart.

Elliot covered his mouth, and his shoulders began to shake. The sobs broke free, unstoppable.

Owen moved instinctively. He gripped his brother’s shoulders, steadying him, preventing him from collapsing.

“Calm yourself,” he said quietly. “Breathe.”

“Brother…” Elliot sobbed. “I… I am not ready…”

“I know.”

Owen patted Elliot’s shoulders gently, repeatedly. A motion he had performed hundreds of times since childhood. Since their father left, since their mother fell ill, since life had forced Owen to mature far too soon.

“Ever since Mother went into a coma ten years ago,” Owen continued, his voice steady, “I have told us all… we must always be prepared.”

Elliot shook his head violently. “But… still, it feels too sudden…”

“No death ever comes at the right time,” Owen replied softly.

Elliot’s sobs grew louder. He bowed his head, trembling as if the world had just collapsed upon him.

Owen remained standing, a pillar.

Inside him, something pressed, struck, demanded to escape. But he restrained it. Locked it away deep within.

If he were to break now, who would hold Elliot?

“Brother…” Elliot lifted his tear-streaked face. “You… you are sad too, aren’t you?”

Owen paused.

Sad?

He almost smiled.

“Sadness is natural,” he finally said. “But I cannot fall first.”

“Why?” Elliot’s voice broke.

“Because I am your brother.”

The words sounded simple. Yet behind them lay years of unspoken burdens.

“If I am not the strong one,” Owen continued quietly, “then who else, Elliot?”

“Brother… I’m sorry for being selfish… I’ve only ever relied on you…”

“Cry. Let it all out. Do not hold back.”

Elliot’s sobs intensified. He clung to Owen, clutching his brother’s hoodie as if afraid to lose the only anchor he had left.

Owen returned the embrace. His hands were strong, steady, protective.

Yet his eyes stared blankly ahead.

He did not dare enter the morgue.

Not yet.

If he stepped inside now, if he saw his mother’s lifeless face, he knew with certainty that he would not be able to maintain this composure.

And he could not afford to lose control.

“I will handle the paperwork,” he said after a while. “You sit for a moment.”

Elliot nodded weakly.

Owen released his brother, then stepped away. Every step felt heavy, yet he continued. He signed the documents without hesitation. His full name clearly written on every page.

As a son. As a guardian. As a responsible person.

When it was done, he returned to stand before the morgue.

Alone.

His hand rose, almost touching the handle, but froze in midair.

“Later,” he whispered to himself.

Not now.

He was not yet allowed to collapse.

---

In her silent apartment, Ailine closed the window curtains.

The city lights disappeared, leaving only the shadow of herself in the glass. She stood there for a long moment, hugging herself.

If Owen chose to leave to protect her from something she could not comprehend, then she would learn to live without his presence.

Even if it hurt. Even if it was lonely.

---

Owen finally stepped into the morgue.

His mother’s face appeared peaceful. Too peaceful. As if all the years of suffering had finally ended.

He stood there, staring for a long moment.

“Mother…” he whispered.

No response.

Outside that room, Ailine stood alone in her apartment. Inside, Owen stood alone before departure.

Two worlds. Two solitudes. Two people who loved each other, yet neither knew that, that night, they were both learning to let go.

“Goodbye…”

On his way home, Owen drove in silence.

He had known this day would come. He simply had not anticipated the depth of pain—and that it would arrive alongside another loss.

“Listen to yourself,” he murmured bitterly. “You do not deserve her. She deserves better than you. And now Mother has gone without a proper farewell. Forget all this… It is for the best, for both yourself and her.”

He exhaled deeply.

Yes. It had to be this way.

His phone vibrated again, but this time he did not answer. It was only an offer for an elaborate funeral service.

Owen smiled bitterly, his eyes empty.

“So it is true,” he whispered softly, “I am not allowed to cry.”