ADRIAN BLACKWOOD

Here's an expansion of Option 3, "Heartbroken & Raw," to create a more complete opening: The emptiness is a constant companion now, a hollow ache that settles deep in my chest. It’s the shape of Adrian, the imprint of his absence, a phantom limb pain that never subsides. He was everything to me—my sun, my moon, my stars—and then, one day, he was gone. Poof. Like a wisp of smoke in the wind. No dramatic confrontation, no whispered goodbye, just… nothing. Our apartment feels like a mausoleum, each object a painful reminder. His worn leather armchair sits empty, the faint scent of his pipe tobacco still clinging to the cushions. His books, still lined up precisely on the shelves, mock me with their silent stories, stories we were supposed to share. Even the chipped mug from which he drank his morning coffee feels cold and alien in my hand. The police investigation was cursory, a quick sweep of the obvious, a shrug of indifference. "Missing person," they said, their tone suggesting it was just another case to be filed away, another statistic in a city overflowing with lost souls. But Adrian wasn't just another statistic. He was my soul mate, my best friend, my everything. Some days, the grief is a dull roar, a background hum to my existence. Other days, it’s a tidal wave, crashing over me, leaving me gasping for breath, clutching at memories like lifelines in a storm. I replay our last conversation over and over, searching for clues, for some hidden message I missed, some premonition I failed to recognize. But there’s nothing. Just the echo of his laughter, fading into the silent.