Page 74 of Shattered

He’d been staying here sometimes and slept over because I wasn’t ready to fully move in with him yet.

I started gathering his things. Clothes from my closet. Books from my shelves. Toiletries from my bathroom.

I packed everything carefully, like if I did it right, I could pack away the guilt too. Could pack away Wednesday afternoon and the phone calls I’d ignored and the way I’d been smiling while she’d been dying.

When I was done, I texted him.

Delia

Come get your things. I need my space back.

Axel arrived thirty minutes later looking confused. Worried. Like he’d been expecting this but hoping he was wrong.

“What’s this about?” he asked, staring at the duffel bag by the door.

“I need to be alone. I need my apartment back.”

“Okay. I can give you space. I don’t need to be here every night.”

“No. I need my space back. All of it.” I couldn’t look at him. Looking at him hurt. “I need you to take your things and go.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Are you pushing me away or do you actually need space?”

“I don’t know the difference, and I don’t have the energy to figure it out.”

“Delia.” He moved closer. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”

“I’m not shutting you out. I’m asking for what I need.”

“Those feel like the same thing.”

“Then I guess they are.” I picked up the duffel bag and held it out. My hands were shaking. “Take your things and go.”

“I don’t want to.”

“I don’t care what you want right now. I need you to leave.”

Something in his face changed. Like he was trying to understand why I was pushing him away. “This is about guilt.”

“What?”

“You feel guilty—about being with me while your mom was dying, about being happy.” His voice was gentle. Too gentle. Like I was something breakable. “Delia?—“

“Don’t.” I cut him off. The gentleness made it worse. Made the guilt sharper. “Don’t analyze me. Don’t tell me what I’m feeling. Just take your things and go.”

“I’ll give you space. But I’m not going anywhere. When you’re ready?—”

“Just go!”

He took the duffel bag, standing there in my doorway looking at me like I was breaking his heart.

“I love you,” he said quietly.

The words landed like knives. Because I loved him too. But loving him meant being happy. And being happy while my mother died felt like the worst kind of betrayal.

“Please go.”

He did.