Our final conversation presses up from the depths, insistent, but I shake my head, fierce and frantic, as if I can rattle the past right out of my skull. No. I refuse to give it space. I refuse to let it take root in this room again. Moving forward isn’t just an option, it’s survival, the only direction that doesn’t carry me back to the heartbreak hotel.
Rising to my feet, I scan the room with renewed purpose. That’s when I spot it—an old shoebox peeking out from under the bed, its corners softened by time, the lid bulging slightly from years of containing things I should have discarded long ago.
Against my better judgment, I reach for it, fingers sliding the box out from the shadows. The moment I lift the lid, regret hits, swift and cold, washing through me like an early tide.
The first thing I pull out slams into me. A Polaroid. Jake and I at a Fourth of July picnic, fireworks painting our faces in bright flashes, his arm hooked around my shoulders as he holds me tight against his side. My chest squeezes hard, like unseen hands are wringing my heart dry. One of our last moments together.Up on the Ferris wheel, above the lights, above the noise, right before everything shattered.
Why the hell didn’t I throw this stuff out?
My finger drifts over the glossy surface anyway, traitorous, undoing the anger I’ve been clutching like a shield. Even with the Polaroid’s signature blur, his smile is unmistakable, bright and easy, a perfect row of straight teeth that used to make me self-conscious of my metal braces.
We’d been happy. Or I’d fooled myself into believing we were, which might be the same thing, depending on the day. His family had welcomed me with open arms, especially after I helped them strategize that marketing campaign for his uncle’s RainSafe Backpack, a waterproof, solar-charging backpack with a retractable umbrella. I’d made flashy presentation boards and written catchy slogans. It still never found its investors. Neither did the ending that I wanted.
So what went wrong? The question spears me all over again, sharp and sudden, just as it was four years ago, like time hasn’t dulled the pain at all. Was it me? Something I said—something I didn’t. Perhaps some elusive mistake I’d made. He never bothered to explain.
A tear splashes onto the photo, landing right between our frozen smiles. I curse under my breath and drop it to the floor as if it’s suddenly scalding, as if the past can burn through skin.
I made a vow. No more crying over Jake and his perfect teeth. And look at me now.
The resentment that follows isn’t just a feeling, it’s a living thing, coiling low in my belly, twisting like a snake gathering itself to strike. And yet my hands betray me anyway, reaching back into the box of their own accord, fingers closing around the next relic. I pull out another memory, and it punches the breath right out of me.
A ridiculous selfie at Granny Jo’s Diner: Jake holding up seven pancakes like it’s a trophy while the waitress watches like she’s witnessing a glutton. He actually downed it all. I can still hear his laugh, deep and rumbling and infectious, sliding straight past my defenses. That laugh used to run through me like wildfire, lighting up parts of me that I showed only in his presence.
And then the real gut-punch rises from the depths of the shoebox. A crumpled ticket stub, edges softened from being handled too many times. Our last date.10 Things I Hate About Youat the drive-in. My fingers close around it, the paper crinkling softly, and the sound is somehow louder than it should be. That night we laughed until our ribs ached, kissed until our mouths hurt, whispered dreams into the dark like children tossing pennies into a wishing well, certain the universe was listening.
Three days later, he broke it off like it all meant nothing.
Tears flood my eyes and I throw the ticket stub as hard as I can, like distance might save me from it. The paper only flutters down near my dresser, pathetic and stubborn, refusing to become anything other than what it is. My heart thunders against my ribs, loud and furious and helpless. Why do I do this to myself?
A sharp rap at the door slices through my spiral of memories and misery, dragging me back to the present like a drowning woman yanked from stormy waters.
“Sarah, honey? Can I come in?” Mom’s voice drifts through the door like a gentle wind, soft but impossible to ignore.
“Yes.” The word escapes me, small and fragile.
The hinges give off a long squeak as Mom enters, and the moment she sees my tear-streaked face, understanding flashes across her face. She crosses the faded blue carpet without a word and settles beside me on the bed, the mattress dipping under her, her warmth pressing close.
“You okay, sweetie?” Her fingers catch a stray golden lock and smooth it back behind my ear.
I nod, swallowing hard around the lump in my throat. “Just…unpacking.”
Her eyes sweep the battlefield of my floor, landing on the scattered Polaroid and stub. “I know it’s not easy coming back to all these memories,” she says softly, “But you will get through this.”
That word—memories—constricts around my chest like a python, squeezing tighter with each breath.
“Love will find you again when you least expect it.” Mom’s voice carries the calm certainty of someone who’s weathered emotional storms and come out the other side. “You just have to let it.”
A bitter laugh punches its way out of me as I yank a tissue from the Kleenex box on my nightstand. I scrub it under my nose like I can wipe away my feelings along with the snot. “Love?” I scoff. “Mom, seriously?” The words come sharp, ugly. “All guys are the same, selfish jerks who whisper sweet nothings and then leave without an explanation.”
Mom doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t argue. She just looks at me with that patient, knowing expression she’s earned through years, the one that says she understands this is grief dressed up as anger, that it needs a voice before it can fade. Then she gathers me into her embrace, firm and safe, and my chest aches with how much I’ve missed being held like this. “Not all guys, Sarah,” she whispers. “You’ve got your whole life ahead of you. As long as you remain open to it, love will come knocking again.”
I sigh and melt into her shoulder, letting her steadiness hold me up. She’s right, even if I’m not ready to say it out loud. This is my fresh start. Jake Matthews doesn’t get to come with me unless I open the door and invite him back in. And if I were todo that, it would only be for the purpose of throwing him out the window.
“Dinner is done. Come down when you’re ready.” She presses a kiss to the crown of my head, then rises and walks out. The door swings nearly closed behind her.
I push myself off the bed and cross the room to where the crumpled ticket stub lies near my dresser. I pick it up, my fingers tracing its worn edges one last time. Then I tuck it back into the shoebox with the other memories, sealing them away for good this time. The cardboard lid settles with a soft thud. I shove the whole box deep into the closet, into the shadows where it can’t stare back at me. Out of sight, out of mind.
Downstairs, the kitchen greets me like an old friend. The walls still sport their chaotic collection of chicken bobbleheads, red-spotted mushroom jars, and rooster magnets, a mismatched menagerie straight out of my childhood, stubbornly unchanged.
