Cruz:
The box wasn’t heavy.
Just clothes, maybe a few of her books, a curling iron tangled around the hoodie she always stole from me. It didn’t weigh more than fifteen pounds.
But f**k, carrying it out to the truck felt like dragging something bigger—like the gravity of it had tripled the second I lifted it off her apartment floor.
She was talking as she packed, something about the med shack and how someone came in with a nail through their foot. I grunted in the right spots, nodded once, but I couldn’t focus. Not really.
Because this was happening.
She was moving in.
Not crashing at my place.
Not leaving her toothbrush next to mine or staying the night and leaving a shirt behind.
No—she was coming with boxes.
Claiming space.
And I’d opened the door.
What the f**k was I doing
