Chapter 7: The Empty Bed
The rain started at 6:47 PM.
Leonid noticed because he'd been watching the window for the last hour, his whiskey growing warm in his hand, the ice long since melted. The apartment was quiet in a way that felt aggressive, the kind of silence that pressed against your eardrums and made you hear your own heartbeat.
He'd been in Brooklyn for three weeks now.
The space was stark. White walls stretched over exposed brick, the effect intentional but somehow clinical, like a gallery waiting for art that never arrived. Unpacked boxes lined the edges of the room, their contents still a mystery, their cardboard edges softened by the humidity of the endless rain. A single mattress sat in the corner of the bedroom, bare and unforgiving, the sheets he'd bought still folded in a plastic bag on the floor.
He'd told himself he needed a fresh start. A different continent, a different timezone, a different bed that didn't smell like her.
But the distance hadn't helped.
The rain pattered against the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city's neon bleeding through the glass in smears of red and blue and sickly green. In the reflection, he could see himself: a man sitting alone in a room full of boxes, his shoulders curved, his head bowed, his hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey he hadn't really drunk.
He looked like a stranger.
He looked like a ghost.
Leonid set the glass down on the floor—he didn't own a coffee table yet, hadn't bothered to buy one—and reached for his phone. The screen glowed to life, the wallpaper still a photo of them. Jennie and him, tangled together on a beach in Santorini, her head thrown back in laughter, his arm wrapped around her waist.
He'd taken that photo two years ago.
He'd never changed it.
His thumb hovered over the Photos app, and he opened it without thinking. His finger scrolled automatically, muscle memory guiding him through the thousands of images he'd accumulated over the years. Her face filled the screen in fragments: the curve of her smile, the arc of her brow, the fall of her hair across her shoulder.
There was one from their first year together. She was asleep, her face buried in a pillow, her lashes dark against her cheeks. He'd taken it at 4 AM, unable to sleep, transfixed by the sight of her so peaceful, so vulnerable, so completely his.
He'd thought, in that moment, that he would die for her.
He hadn't known, then, that he would have to die a little every day just to stay.
The next photo was from a fashion week afterparty. Jennie was dressed in black, her lips a slash of crimson, her eyes sharp and dangerous. She was looking at him from across the room, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth.
God, she was beautiful.
God, he missed her.
He missed the way she curled into his chest at night, her head tucked under his chin, her breath warm against his collarbone. He missed the way she laughed at his terrible jokes, the way she rolled her eyes but always smiled. He missed the way she touched his face like he was something precious, like she couldn't believe he was real.
He missed the good days.
He'd learned, over the years, to catalog the good days like a miser counting gold. The mornings when she woke up soft and drowsy, curling into him with a contented hum. The evenings when they cooked dinner together, her hips swaying to music only she could hear. The nights when she reached for him in the dark, her hands gentle, her mouth pliant, her love a language he'd learned to speak fluently.
He'd held onto those days like a lifeline. They'd been enough, for a while. He'd told himself that the bad days were worth it, that her love was worth the pain, that he could absorb her darkness and somehow survive.
But the bad days had been getting worse.
He scrolled past a photo of her on the rooftop in Paris, the Eiffel Tower glowing behind her like a promise. She was laughing, her head tilted back, her hands gripping the railing. He remembered that night. He'd proposed to her an hour later, the ring burning a hole in his pocket, his heart hammering against his ribs.
She'd said yes.
She'd thrown her arms around his neck, pressing kisses to his cheeks, his forehead, his mouth, and he'd felt like the luckiest man in the world.
He hadn't known, then, that he was walking toward the edge of a cliff.
Leonid set the phone down on the floor, face-up, the photo still glowing. He picked up his whiskey and took a long sip, the liquid burning down his throat, warm and numbing.
The rain kept falling.
The city hummed outside, indifferent to his pain, its lights flickering and flashing like a heartbeat that didn't belong to him.
He stood up.
His legs were stiff, his joints aching from hours of sitting still. He crossed the room to the window, pressing his palm against the glass. The cold seeped through his skin, sharp and grounding, and he stared at his reflection.
He looked terrible.
His hair was overgrown, curling at the edges, his jaw shadowed with stubble he hadn't bothered to shave in days. His eyes were hollow, ringed with dark circles, their usual warmth extinguished.
He didn't recognize himself.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice rough. "Look at what you've become."
The reflection stared back at him, silent and accusing.
He thought about her. Of course he thought about her. She was always there, a constant presence in the back of his mind, a phantom limb that still ached even after being severed. He wondered if she was thinking about him too. He wondered if she was sitting in that empty penthouse, tracing her diamond ring, replaying the moment he'd walked away.
He wondered if she hated him.
He wondered if she'd ever loved him at all.
No. He knew she'd loved him. She'd loved him in her own fractured way, fiercely and desperately, like a drowning person clinging to a life raft. She'd loved him in the only way she knew how, even when that love turned to violence, even when her hands balled into fists, even when her words cut deeper than any blade.
He'd forgiven her. God, he'd forgiven her so many times he'd lost count.
But forgiveness wasn't the same as healing.
He turned away from the window and picked up his phone again. His thumb brushed over the screen, pulling up his contacts, scrolling to her name.
Jennie ❤️
His thumb hovered over the call button.
The rain hammered against the glass like a heartbeat. Like a countdown.
He could call her. He could hear her voice. He could tell her he was sorry, that he was wrong, that he couldn't live without her. He could go back. He could slide into the booth at Le Petit Rêve and tell her he'd made a mistake, that he would do anything, that he'd spend the rest of his life learning to absorb the blows.
He could go back.
But he couldn't go back to the way things were.
His thumb trembled over the screen.
And he thought of the bruises. He thought of the mornings he'd woken up with her nails etched into his skin. He thought of the way she looked at him sometimes, like she didn't know who he was, her eyes empty and cold and utterly alien.
He thought of the way his heart raced when she reached for him in the dark, the way he flinched even as he leaned into her touch.
He couldn't go back.
But he couldn't move forward either.
He was stuck, suspended between her and the man he used to be, unable to reach either shore.
The phone shook in his hand.
He stared at her name, the glowing letters, the heart emoji he'd added years ago when everything was still new and bright and full of promise.
And then he threw it.
The phone hit the wall with a sharp crack, the screen shattering into a web of splinters, the pieces scattering across the floor like glass tears.
The sound echoed through the empty apartment, loud and final.
Leonid stood there, his chest heaving, his hands shaking, his breath ragged in his throat. The silence rushed back in, pressing against him, suffocating.
He didn't move.
He didn't know how to.
Slowly, he sank to his knees. The floor was cold beneath him, hard and unforgiving. He stared at the shattered phone, at the fragments of glass glinting in the dim light, at the screen still glowing faintly before flickering and dying.
He'd broken it.
He'd broken everything.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying to hold back the wave, but it was too strong. It crashed over him, drowning him, and he gasped as the sob tore through him—a raw, ugly sound that he'd never allowed himself to make before.
He cried.
He cried like a child, loud and ugly, tears streaming down his face, sobs wracking his body until he was shaking, his chest burning, his throat raw.
He cried for the love he'd lost. He cried for the man he used to be, the man who'd believed in forever, the man who'd thought that love could conquer anything.
He cried for Jennie. For the woman he'd adored, the woman he'd promised to protect, the woman who'd hurt him in ways he couldn't even name.
He cried for himself, for the broken shell he'd become, for the emptiness that had hollowed him out from the inside.
The rain kept falling.
The city kept humming.
And Leonid Manoban kneeled on the cold floor of his empty apartment, surrounded by unpacked boxes and shattered glass, and wept into the dark.
He didn't know how long he stayed there.
Minutes. Hours. Time had lost all meaning, melting into a blur of tears and breath and pain.
But eventually, the sobs subsided. His breathing slowed. His body stilled.
He looked up.
The room was dark now, the candles long since burned out, the streetlights casting long shadows across the floor. The shattered phone lay in pieces near the wall, a silent testament to his breakdown.
He didn't pick it up.
He couldn't bring himself to.
Instead, he pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling, his knees aching. He made his way to the bedroom, past the unpacked boxes, past the clothes scattered on the floor, and collapsed onto the bare mattress.
The springs groaned beneath him.
He stared at the ceiling, his eyes dry and burning, his mind finally quiet. The tears had emptied something in him, washed it clean, and now he felt nothing but a vast, hollow stillness.
He thought about tomorrow.
Tomorrow, he had a shoot. A magazine cover, something prestigious, something that would put his face on billboards and his name in the headlines. He'd go through the motions, smile and pose, look beautiful while his insides rotted.
He'd become good at that.
He thought about the weeks ahead, the endless parade of obligations and expectations, the cameras flashing, the interviews, the questions about his personal life that he'd deflect with a practiced smile.
He thought about her.
He would always think about her.
But maybe that was okay. Maybe that was the price of loving someone—that they stayed with you, even when they were gone.
He closed his eyes.
The rain still fell, a constant, rhythmic drum against the glass, like a lullaby, like a dirge.
He let himself drift.
And somewhere across the ocean, in a penthouse in Seoul, Jennie Kim was sitting alone in the dark, her phone in her hand, her thumb hovering over his name.
She didn't call either.
But she didn't sleep.
Neither did he.
In the distance, the city glowed, indifferent and alive, and two broken people lay on opposite sides of the world, separated by an ocean and a lifetime of wounds, both wishing they could reach across the distance.
Neither of them knew how.
The rain kept falling.
The night stretched on.
And the silence between them grew wider, deeper, darker—until it felt like a space that could never be crossed, a chasm that could never be bridged.
Leonid's breathing slowed.
His body relaxed.
And in the dark, he dreamed of her.
She was standing at the altar, her dress glowing white, her smile radiant. She was reaching for him, her hands outstretched, her eyes full of light.
He was walking toward her.
He was almost there.
And then she opened her mouth, and instead of words, a scream tore out—raw and furious, an animal sound that pierced his chest and made his heart stop.
He woke up gasping.
The apartment was still dark. The rain was still falling. He was alone.
He pressed his hand to his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart through his ribs.
It was just a dream.
But the trembling didn't stop.
And as the first gray light of dawn bled through the window, Leonid Manoban lay awake, staring at the ceiling, wondering how long it would take for the night to finally end.