I sighed as I zipped up the duffel bag on my bed. Even the zipper sounded reluctant, dragging along the teeth like it didn’t want to close—like it shared my hesitation. The sound was soft, almost mournful, like the bag itself didn’t want this to be the end. It wasn’t ideal, going home. It wasn’t what I wanted, and it definitely wasn’t something I looked forward to. I certainly didn’t want to go back and see James. Hence, the sigh. But I had to do it. I had to face it, get it over with, no matter how much I wanted to pretend this wasn’t real.
My eyes wandered around the room, absorbing every last detail like I could somehow burn them into memory, as if that would make leaving easier. The bed was made neatly, like I was preparing it for someone else, or maybe for myself when I came back. I
