Still, it guts me.
Because a year should mean something. Apparently, it meant everything to me, and nothing to her.
After draining the rest of the beer, I set the bottle down, rub my eyes. Her self-help book—Let That Shit Go—sits on the coffee table, stupid and cheerful in its faux-minimalist font.
I pick it up. Flip it open in my hands.
I can’t take this shit anymore.
I rip it in half.
The tearing sound is so satisfying. Pages scatter across the floor like ashes. It’s book murder. And I love it.
I keep going until there’s nothing left but the hardback cover.
Then I sit in the middle of my new mess, surrounded by pages full of advice she never followed and I never needed.
And I feel… nothing.
Just numb.
I need something else.
My eyes land on the bookshelf.
That photo of us—her windblown, laughing. Me, looking at her instead of the camera. A hiking trip. Her idea. I hate hiking. But I went.
Because she loved it. And I loved her.
The photo is a lie. A frozen moment from a story I didn’t know was already ending.
A part of me wants to laugh about all this. But laughter only masksthe ache for so long before it breaks, leaving behind a dull, empty sadness. Because the truth is, I wasn’t enough for her.
And while she was out having hervibrantextracurriculars, I was in the shower convincing myself this was just a rough patch.
My phone buzzes in my pocket.
I don’t look at it right away. I know what it is.
Nothing urgent. Nothing I’m ready for.
Still, I swipe it open. No new messages. But a missed call from a number I know by heart.
Dad.
It’s been weeks since we spoke. Weeks since the last call ended with raised voices and a hollow click.
But it’s the way my chest feels too tight, too raw, that makes me hit call before I think better of it.
It rings.
Once. Twice.
“Nolan?” His voice scrapes across the line, rough, a little too careful. He’s trying to place me.
“Hey,” I say, clearing my throat. “Sorry it’s late.”
Silence blooms. Not hostile. Just… blank.
