by JY Saville
You don't notice the silence at first. It creeps up on you like some noxious gas leaking in through the cracks in your life. No ringing phone, no chattering kids, no murmured confidences in the dead of night. The click of the kettle sounds like a gunshot. One fatal wound to the heart. When you said you needed space, you forgot space is a vacuum.
JY Saville writes mainly short fiction, mainly in the genre loosely termed speculative, but more mainstream work has appeared at PicFic, Short, Fast and Deadly and Every Day Fiction. She blogs here.