I stop in front of my neatly zipped backpack, the sight filling me with an unexpected pang of finality. I’ve pared my life down to what can fit inside it, shedding everything else like a snake discarding old skin. But it’s not just things I’m leaving behind—it’s an entire version of myself.
The house feels heavy around me, its silence pressing in. Every corner holds echoes of the life I thought I was building with Ben, and for the first time, I realize how much of myself I sacrificed to fill this space.
I tried so hard to make this house feel like a home, to shape myself around him and his needs. Now, all I can feel is theechoing emptiness of our lie of a relationship. The thought makes my chest ache, a dull throb that no amount of planning or packing can erase.
Eventually, I climb back under the covers, forcing myself to lie still even as my thoughts spin with everything I’ve lost and everything I hope is waiting for me on the other side of the world. Sleep comes slowly, fractured and fleeting.
When I finally slip into dreams, they pull me back to the woods. The air is sharp, the scent of pine and woodsmoke thick in my lungs. Shadows ripple across the ground, cast by the flicker of the firepit. And beyond the flames, those silver eyes gleam, waiting, pulling, calling me back.
I wake before dawn, my pulse racing with the memory of them. The pull is sharp, visceral, impossible to ignore. Somewhere deep inside, I feel it settle—the truth I’ve been resisting.
My heart never left India.
Chapter Seven
Dahlia
Ilie in bed watching the rising sun chase away the shadows until I finally get up and shuffle into the kitchen, bleary-eyed but brimming with restless energy, and make myself a French press coffee—probably the last good cup I’ll have for quite some time. The rich aroma fills the air, grounding me for a moment, but not enough to ease the knot in my chest.
I sip it slowly, savoring the rich brew while also anticipating the switch to the sweet scalding chai of India. Cup in hand, I head to the garage where Ben’s pathologically organized storage containers line the shelves, each neatly labeled in his precise block handwriting. For a moment, I just stare at them, their rigid perfection grating against the chaos he’s stirred within me and my life.
“What’s good for the goose,” I say aloud to the garage as I dump several of them onto the floor, sending tools, cords, and who-knows-what scattering into a haphazard pile, “is good for the gander.”
A petty thrill zips through me, imagining his reaction to themess. Welcome to my world, Benny boy. Grabbing the empty tubs, I walk through the house and start packing up my own things—what little I actually care to keep.
Maybe I’m numb, a robot going through the motions, or maybe I truly don’t care anymore, but the small pile I end up with feels unimpressive. A few of my favorite kitchen gadgets, most of my clothes, a couple of sentimental keepsakes. One box of academia—copies of my published works, a handful of notes. And several boxes of books, too many to justify but too precious to leave behind.
Packing my car to the brim takes effort, but it means only two trips to the storage shed to get everything moved. Despite renting the smallest one, my belongings barely take up half the space.
Pride at my lack of consumerism wars with disappointment as I stare at the shoebox unit. Is this really it? Is this all I have to represent my life? The thought stings, and not because I care about material things, but because of what it says about me. If I’d met my academic goals, maybe my lack of achievement wouldn’t burn quite so much.
What do I have to show for my thirty-odd years on this planet?
A few tubs of random belongings. A failed relationship. No family. No doctorate. An unsuccessful research expedition. A bruised ego. A broken heart. And no cure.
When I think about my life in these terms, it’s not just bleak. It’s downright depressing.
But then, as I lean against the car, staring at the mess Ben has made of my life—the pieces he left me to pick up, the years I can’t get back—another saying of my mom’s rises unbidden in my mind.
Sometimes, honey, the only place left to go is up.
The words settle over me, their warmth a stark contrast to the emptiness within. I close my eyes, letting them wraparound me. Maybe she was right. Maybe this is rock bottom. But rock bottom, for all its jagged edges and shadows, is also a starting point. And that means there’s only one direction left to go.
With that comes a freedom as I realize I have nothing to lose, and the weight of a thousand expectations lifts off my shoulders. Endless possibility unfurls in front of me. The entire world is open to me now. I can go anywhere, do anything. I am free. Free to forge my own path, free to return to my hunt for the plant, free to do whateverIwant.
I vow I’m not going to let this disease take my life before ittakesmy life. I am going to go live. Iamfree. And it feels incredible. I close the door and step back, staring at the padlock like it’s sealing away not just my things, but my old life. My old thought patterns that held me hostage.
“I am fucking free,” I yell, pumping my fist in the air.
“I beg your pardon,” comes a haughty voice behind me.
A startled gasp escapes me as I spin around to the parking lot. An elderly woman clings to her husband's arm, shrinking into him. I’d been so lost in thought, I hadn’t even heard their footsteps approach. Her face is frozen in horror, while her husband barely hides a smirk.
“I said what I said.” I shrug and walk away, leaving the storage unit, and my old life, locked away behind me. I’m done caring about the judgement of others. I head back to the house for one last pass—one last goodbye—before I chase down theSilene vitalisand whatever time I have left to live.
My mood is short lived, the burst of euphoria curdling into a pool of disgust in my gut as I round the bend to see Ben’s car in the driveway. I grip the steering wheel, pulsehammering with irritation as I pull in next to it. I should have known he wouldn’t just slink off quietly.
Guarded, I step inside to find him sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees, head bowed. The perfect picture of shame and remorse. But I know it’s all just an illusion now. His head snaps up at the sound of the door.
