The first thing to disappear is the outline of my knuckles, then the seam of a wrist, then the faint shadow a lip should cast. The more I stop reaching for Marcus—stop wanting, stop arguing with the past—the lighter I become. I understand it now: my staying was tethered to expectation. Unclench, and the cord thins.
Let him forget me, I think. Let him put me in a folder labeled Lessons and never open it again. If he forgets, the ache might finally let me sleep.
He does the opposite. He leaves the hospital and drives like anger is a road. The villa opens to his code, the alarm swallows its howl, and he goes straight to the room strangers have called mine. He pulls the old shoebox from the back of a drawer and sets it on the bed like a confession.
Inside are our small reliquaries: a museum
