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The sweatpants he wore on lazy Sundays when he cooked breakfast barefoot.

The pen he always carried but somehow kept leaving here.

The key he left on my counter, that I hadn't gotten the nerve to use for his place, and now never would.

Every piece was a thread tied to the dream I’d let myself believe in. A future where mornings meant coffee made too strong, and evenings meant him, sprawled on my couch, arguing about whether we could call his overly dry, pan-seared chicken ‘actual cooking’.

A future where I got to be soft. Where I wasn’t always holding my breath, waiting for the ground to give way beneath me.

I blinked hard and shoved another item into the box.

The ache in my chest spread until it hurt to breathe.

I wasn’t ready to hate him.

But I couldn’t stand the way his ghost clung to every corner of this place.

I was halfway through stacking his things when I found a note sticking out.

Harlan’s handwriting.

I couldn't read it.

I folded it carefully, once, twice, three times, until it disappeared into my palm and threw it in the box.

By the time I was done, the box was heavier than it looked. It felt like I’d packed pieces of myself along with his things.

I stood there for a long time, staring at it, my throat tight.

I couldn’t see him. Not yet. Not with this hollow ache still raw and open.

“Remi,” I called, voice rough.

She appeared in the doorway, brows drawn. “Yeah?”

“Can you…” I gestured toward the box without looking at it. “Can you drop this at the station for me?”

Her gaze softened. “You sure?”

I nodded. “I can’t...” My voice cracked, and I forced it steady. “I can’t deal with seeing him. Not yet.”

Remi crossed the room, didn’t say a word, just rested a hand on my shoulder for a beat before she pulled me into a hug.

I stared at the box like it had personally offended me, trying to hold back the tears.

For the first time since leaving the station, I felt it settle in my bones:

Whatever I thought we were building…

It was gone.

CHAPTER 42

HARLAN - COLOUR OUTSIDE THE LINES

Most people think rot starts loud.

That it smells. That it spreads like smoke or blood.