The air in Lindsey’s apartment hung heavy, thick with the scent of old coffee and unspoken words. She’d cleared the surfaces, stowed away the remnants of their shared life – the toothbrush holder with two brushes, the mismatched mugs, the book he’d never finished – leaving behind a stark, almost clinical emptiness. Tonight, it would be different. Tonight was the end.

The end, as in, the end end. Not a temporary break, not a “let’s see what happens,” but a deliberate, tear-stained, and agonizing finality. They’d made the decision over take-out pizza and lukewarm beer the previous night, the words “it’s not working” echoing in the small space. It was a mutual understanding, a surrender to the slow, inevitable drift that had been pulling them apart for months.

He arrived at 8, as he always did. Tonight, there were no casual kisses, no familiar banter about the day. The air between them was charged with an unspoken sorrow, a thick, palpable grief for what was, what could have been, and what would never be.

They ate in silence, picking at the same take-out pizza they’d shared the night before. The pepperoni seemed particularly bland, the crust unusually hard. Afterward, they drifted into the bedroom, the place where so much of their story had unfolded.

It wasn’t passionate, not in the way it used to be. It wasn't a frantic grasping, a desperate attempt to hold on. Instead, it was slow, deliberate, almost ceremonial. Each touch felt weighted with the past, with the memories of laughter, whispered secrets, and shared vulnerabilities. It was a silent acknowledgment of the bond they had forged, a final farewell whispered with their bodies rather than their lips. The "shag" wasn't just physical; it was a shared moment of profound sadness and bittersweet recognition.

Lindsey closed her eyes, trying to etch into her memory the way he felt beneath her hands, the rhythm of his breathing, the comforting weight of him. She tried to ignore the lump in her throat that threatened to spill over into uncontrollable tears.

When it was over, they lay in the quiet of the room, their bodies intertwined, yet a chasm opening between them, wider and more profound than any physical distance. There were no promises of staying in touch, no platitudes about being friends. There was simply the raw, undeniable truth of their separation.

He eventually rolled over, his back to her. Lindsey knew he was fighting back his own emotions, the way he always had. She reached out and traced the curve of his shoulder blade with her fingertips, a silent goodbye caress.

"I... I should probably go," he said, his voice rough, cracking slightly.

Lindsey nodded, unable to speak. She watched him get dressed, the familiar movements now feeling foreign, almost surreal. He paused at the door, turned back, their eyes meeting for the briefest of seconds. In that look, she saw the ghost of the man she had loved, the man she had shared her life with, and a deep, aching sadness settled in her chest.

Then, he was gone.

The apartment felt hollow, the silence deafening. Lindsey curled up on the bed, the imprint of his body still faintly visible on the sheets. She didn't cry. Not yet. Instead, she simply stared at the ceiling, trying to process the raw, empty space where he used to be.

This was it. This was the end. The last shared bed, the last shared touch, the last shared breath. It wasn’t dramatic, it wasn't fiery. It was quiet, it was sad, and it was undeniably, irrevocably over. The last shag wasn’t just the end of their physical intimacy, it was the final, heart-wrenching goodbye to a love that had once been. It was a silence more powerful than any word they could have spoken. And in that silence, Lindsey knew she had to begin the long, lonely journey of moving on.

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