Imagine a house.

Beautiful, for your eyes only. Furnished, with the kinds that you've always liked. Comes with a backyard that just the same to what you've always wanted it to be; be it large enough to be called as a small park or only enough to put a small jacuzzi, or perhaps none at all. You pick it, and it appears.
Imagine having it painted in colours you prefer; black, orange, teal, magenta, ruby, cyan or even leave it bare with the colour of bricks. Imagine having a room that is filled with all of your needs: infinite supply of books, cheese, tea, linens, crayons, hats, and everything that you think it might need. Imagine making food there on the kitchen that will always be clean when you enter it, a kitchen that is stocked with food. Imagine sleeping in your room; the one where you can stargaze, perhaps, or the one that only has a large bed (big enough for four) with soft comforters and uncountable plush pillows. Imagine hanging one of your favorite coats on the hanger near the front door--or better yet inside a closet. Imagine living there for a few years, integrating well with your own house, having a predictable routine that would never bore you out, resting gently without remorse, and being yourself after fighting hard battles outdoor.

Imagine, one day, coming home without anything inside. Without your trusty afghan, well-stocked fridge or any other comfort that brings you peace. Without any traces of you, of anything that had been there.

That's how it feels like when you left me: thousands of memories we've gathered (making each other's hearts as our own home) are gone, leaving me a shell of who I used to be. Me without me with you. Me without us. Me without you. Just me.