Mr London Street has posted movingly about this, an extract from which is here:
you are in a flat that doesn’t look like yours, all huge rooms, long straight lines, empty glasses and cups as far as you can see. It's as full of detritus as it is devoid of company. It looks as if you’ve had a party and not yet cleared up and that's half right; you’ve not cleared up yet, but it’s hardly been a party.
He is currently abandoned temporarily by partner, who is away, as I understand it. So am I. For at least four weeks, maybe six or even eight. But I think this is a chap thing. My experience is the opposite. The rooms too big, yes. The place too quiet, yes, TV hardly ever on. But the emptiness is physical. There are no discarded tracky bottoms on the bedroom floor. The laundry basket is empty, because my washing is done. There is no book on top of the fridge (why does he stand in front of the fridge eating toast and reading a book?) and as I walk by the kitchen door I can see the sunlight reflect off the newly Jiffed work top. (Yes, I know it's not called Jif any more). There are no crumbs on the PC keyboard. Because I don't eat in front of it. I cleaned it with baby wipes and it is still clean. I am sure my feet slap rather loudly on the hall floor when I get up at six and head for the bathroom, because there is nobody still asleep to be quiet for. And I read while I eat my dinner. Which is lonely. And I wash it all up straight afterwards, and the next morning there is no cup or glass or plate to pick up and take into the kitchen. The bathroom dazzles me with light reflected off (clean) empty surfaces. There is nothing here.