I knew why.
I’d always known.
It wasn’t something therapy could fix. It was deep trauma, plain and simple. The kind that had sculpted me into the terminally-single woman I’d become.
I tossed the card on the table and decided the only thing that would help was wine—and a scalding hot bubble-bath.
But the second I flicked on the bedroom light, I stopped cold.
There, in the middle of my bed, sat a teddy bear.
I didn’t own a teddy bear.
Never had. Not even as a kid.
It wore a red velvet bow with gold trim, its beady black eyes staring at me like itknewsomething.
I glanced back toward the orchids at the door, then at the bear. My eyes swept the windows, slow and searching. I set the wine on the dresser and crossed the room like I was walking into a trap.
I stared at the bear. Picked it up.
I hated it instantly.
No card. No stitched-on "To/From." No sweet little message. Just… nothing.
My mind spun.
Why would my ex leave flowers on the porch during a thunderstorm, but sneak a stuffed animal onto my bed? He didn’t evenhavea key. I changed the locks the day I ended things.
I bit down on my lip—a nervous tic I despised.
Maybe I forgot to lock the door earlier? No. I always locked it.
Had someone broken in?
My heart kicked hard in my chest.
I put down the bear and moved through the house room by room—three total. Every door, every window—locked. No signs of forced entry. I considered calling the police, but then remembered the last two times I did that.
Both calls had ended the same way: with them implying I was losing my mind, and me starting to believe it.
I stood in the center of my living room, eyes drifting to the bookcases flanking the fireplace. I frowned.
The vesuvianite bookends—were they always positioned like that?
Were they?
Or was I losing it?
I walked back to the bedroom. Stared at the bear.
I didn’t know who sent it. I didn’t know how it got in. But I knew one thing for sure:
I didn’t like it.
And those warning bells in my head?
They weren’t just ringing.
