Page 94 of True Blue

I don't care what I have to do, I can't lose her.

I can't.

I won't.

How do you come back from this devastation? How do you claw your way to forgiveness when every word was unforgivable? How do you exist after cutting open healed wounds just to watch her bleed?

"Is Indie there?" I bark into my phone, my voice so sharp I barely even recognize it.

Anxiety churns in my gut, adrenaline making my hands shake.

"Uh..." Luke's voice is more awake now, but only barely. I hear sheets rustling, the creak of the mattress. "I don't know."

"Check," I bark, my voice breaking on the next word. "Please."

"Yeah, hold on," Luke says, and I hear the familiar creak of our hardwood floors as he walks across the condo. He knocks, "Indie? Are you in there?"

I stop breathing.

"It's quiet, I don't think she's in there," Luke yawns. "Is everything okay?"

"Can you check?" I beg. "Please—go in the room."

Luke's voice is alarmed, but hesitant. "...are you sure⁠—"

"Luke, please," I choke. "Just check, please."

"Alright, Theo," Luke says soothingly, and I hear the door open. A couple more seconds before, "She's not in there, man... but there's an envelope and a folder on your bed. It's her handwriting."

The words hit like a punch to the throat.

"I'll be there in a couple of minutes."

"Is everything okay, Theo?"

"No," I croak, tears stinging my eyes. "I'll explain later."

It feels like I'm walking to my own execution after I park my car and take the steps up toward our condo. Luke's in the kitchen, and the smell of bacon and eggs makes my stomach turn as I walk toward my bedroom.

It's like my heart knows what's on the other side of the door. She's not there. She's long gone. I know that.

But I hope…

Turning the doorknob, I push my bedroom door open.

And again, it's like I get sucker punched.

Her pretty blue suitcases that had been lined under the window—gone. Her Northwestern hoodie that was always draped over the chair in the corner—gone. Her lip balm and claw clips that scattered across my dresser—gone.

My eyes catch onto the picture frames that lined my dresser, my bedside table, the pictures that used to be on my mirror—gone. No, actually—worse. I peek in the wastebasket in the corner of my room and find them.

She took the time to take them from the frames and throw them out. Just the photos. Us. Indie is never cruel, but she is pragmatic. She discarded what didn't matter—what I showed her didn't matter.

A hitching sob rips from my throat.

Her side of the bed is neat, like she smoothed it before she left. I can see into my ensuite bathroom from here. The absence of her toothbrush next to mine on the counter, her perfume, her skincare, her lotions, all gone, nearly brings me to my knees.

Then my eyes find the envelope sitting in the middle of the bed, a blue folder underneath it.