Medora
Two years later
I was finally leaving Seattle. After years of waiting—waiting for Clyde to return, waiting for a sign that he still existed in my life—I’d reached the end of my patience. My cars, furniture, and every heavy thing had already been shipped to Boston. All that remained was me, Bronwyn, and a few suitcases.
Yet, as I stood outside my house, watching Yellow drive away after tearfully promising to visit often, I hesitated.
Don’t ask me if I want to leave, because I don’t know. I told myself this move was necessary—that going back to Boston would give Bronwyn and me a fresh start. But the truth? It felt like I was leaving Clyde behind. Leaving the memories of him, the treehouse, and the fragile hope I’d clung to for two long years.
It hurt.
Maybe because moving away
