A hug I can’t have.
Warmth turned cold.
The back gate creaks open.
My eyes drag from the rim of my glass to the man standing in the garden.
Blake.
Flowers in hand.
Grief in his eyes.
My heart hits the floor.
Sweat beads along my spine. Goosebumps crawl up my arms.
I shut my eyes.
He’s not here for me.
Those flowers—they’re not for me.
They’re for her.
I’m still here.
Still in his hoodie.
Still drinking like I can drown the ache.
Still wishing he was just coming home from work, ready to pull me in and kiss my forehead the way he used to, tasting of beer and bar smoke.
Still pretending we’re just one shower away from fixing everything.
From the hot steam, the whispered“come wash the day off with me”, the way his hands would wake every part of me back to life.
How did we go from midnight showers and laughter
to empty beds and silence?
“Smoking now, are you?”
His voice is quieter than I remember.
“Seems to be that way,” I murmur, taking a drag.
The ember glows bright against the dark.
The fairy lights we strung through the trees once upon a time cast a honeyed light around us—like nothing broke.
He moves past me, down the path we laid together, to the little garden with the white cross.
Her name painted in purple, bookended with butterflies—yellow and blue.
He starts placing the flowers into the vase, one at a time, carefully. Like it means something. Like he means something.
“Why’d you tell her about us?” he says.
