It was just supposed to be a late-night trash run.
But the storm came out of nowhere—summer rain, fierce and sudden.
I didn't run.
I stood on the curb in my robe, soaked to the skin, bag of recycling in one hand, heart too loud in my chest.
And then I saw him.
Andrew.
Standing at the gate, equally drenched, holding a shoebox like it weighed more than steel.
“What's that?" I asked, voice barely carrying over the rain.
He stepped forward, water streaming down his face. “Proof."
He opened the box.
Inside: chewed-up pens, my seventh-grade science fair ribbon, the sarcasm-laced birthday card I'd written him in college. Every tiny thing I'd long forgotten giving.
“I kept them," he said. “All of it. Because you were the only person who ever made me feel real. And I know I was awful at
