I can’t do this.
I can’t keep pieces of him like some pathetic girl who hasn’t learned.
I walk to the trash can beside my dresser, flip the lid open, and drop the watch in. The clink it makes when it hits the bottom is sharp enough to slice through me.
I force air into my lungs.
Count to five.
Close the lid.
“Done,” I whisper. “I’m done.”
I wear a warm wrap dress and thick, long socks. I dry my hair and walk downstairs. I need to focus on something grounding. Food. Routine. Coffee.
I make eggs and toast.
I pour tea.
I clean the counter.
I’m pretending to forget him so hard it’s almost convincing.
Almost.
I open the fridge to put the milk away—and that’s when I see it. A slip of paper tucked under the fox magnet.
My heart lurches.
No.No no no?—
I pull it free with shaking fingers and read it.
A single tear hits the paper before I can stop it. Then another.
“Dammit,” I choke, pressing the back of my hand to my mouth.
He left a note. He never leaves notes.
My chest tightens so sharply it hurts to breathe. I fold the note in half, then in half again, clutching it until the edges bite into my palm.
I head upstairs before I can think about it, legs shaking.
The second I walk into my bedroom, my gaze snags on the trash can. I cross the room and lift the lid.
The watch glints up at me. Cold. Small. Abandoned. Just like the pieces of me he always leaves behind.
I reach for it. My hand trembles. The metal is icy when I pick it up, like it knows it doesn’t belong in the dark.
I close my fingers around it and walk straight to my closet. Top shelf. A box tucked behind folded scarves and an old sweater.
I pull it down. The cardboard edges are worn.
My throat tightens.
The lid gives with a soft, familiar sound. Inside:
