I dropped it. Watched it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. A symbol of everything I hadn’t asked for but couldn’t seem to shake.
Then my fingers found the choker. That damn silver H—his initial gleaming like a brand against my throat.
I pulled. Hard. The clasp dug in before it gave way, and the metal bit into my skin one last time before clattering to the ground beside the jersey.
Relief hit me like a breath I hadn’t realized I was holding.
But it didn’t last.
I changed into the only thing that felt like mine—baggy pajamas with loose sleeves and nothing clingy, nothing tight. I needed space. I needed softness. Something that didn’t feel like him.
The reflection in the mirror stopped me cold.
Eyes rimmed with something raw. Mouth tight. Hair wild and tangled like I’d survived a storm.
Except I hadn’t.
I was still inside it.
I lit a candle on the counter—vanilla, the one I always saved for bad days. Its flickering flame cast shadows across the walls like ghosts. Like the pieces of myself I didn’t recognize anymore.
The freezer door groaned as I opened it. I didn’t care what I pulled out—just that it was cold. Sweet. Numb.
Ice cream.
Spoon.
Quiet.
He filled my thoughts like fog—thick, impossible to shake. That look in his eyes when he told me I wasn’t a fool. The way he bled and didn’t flinch. The way he saw me, even when I didn’t want to be seen.
I told myself I hated him. Over and over again.
But the silence didn’t believe me.
Without him here, the room felt… empty. Like something vital had been ripped out and left behind an echo.
Wasn’t that what I wanted?
To be alone?
To be free?
Then why did this stillness feel so much like mourning?
I brought the spoon to my lips again and stared into the dark.
I didn’t know if I missed his chaos… or if I just didn’t know who I was without it.
I finally sank into the couch, curling into the soft fabric like it might swallow me whole. The ice cream in my lap was starting to melt, but the cold still numbed my tongue—quieting the chaos just enough to breathe.
Each spoonful was a small rebellion.
A moment of control.
A reminder that I could still choose something… even if it was only dessert.
I let my thoughts drift—away from the blood smeared across the ice and the weight of his stare. Away from the heat of his hands and the sound of my own voice cracking as I tried to sound unaffected. I focused instead on useless things. What shade of polish I’d paint my nails next. How many spoons I could stack before they toppled.
