The bed is half empty.
One side is made, crisp and straight, no creases, nothing but smooth white sheets, the pillow plump and perfectly placed at the head of the bed.
The other side is unmade, the creases still there showing where a body used to lay – but the bed is cold now, the sheets on that side are strewn about, the pillow is precariously perched on the side of the bed.
He's perfected the art of not disturbing the memories, nothing has been moved since he left.

The bathroom adjoined to the bedroom is half a mess.
He dares not to touch the toothbrush that lays on the side of the sink, nor clean up the toothpaste smeared across the corner of the mirror – how it got there he's not really sure.
All he knows is that if he comes back, he'll be anal about him touching his stuff.
So he leaves it where it lays.

A knocked over bottle of hairspray, only used once, and the previous bottle sits in the bin.
A coat on the floor, crumpled where he never bothered to pick it up and put it away. It used to smell like him, but the scent is beginning to fade.
Some papers, some knick-knacks, a pair of boxers covered in little printed pink hearts lays on top of the dresser. Little things that he left behind because he had no use for them any more.

He dares not touch – not a thing of his in that room.
He scarcely dares to breathe on anything. Even the slightest breath could move something.
He mustn't move a thing, and he won't, as long as he has even the smallest hint of hope that he will be back.
And as long as he keeps everything in the same condition as it was in that morning, then he can pretend that he never left at all.

Deep down inside, he knows it's in vain.
Because Roxas is gone.
And he's not coming back.