Coco
Creole Tomato:Introduced to Louisiana by Italian immigrants in the early 20th century, the Creole tomato thrives only in the unique soil and climate of southeast Louisiana. Attempts to grow it elsewhere fail, no matter how carefully it’s transplanted. Its flavor is inseparable from place, shaped by heat, rain, and time.
I trace along the windowsill,collecting dust. The afternoon sun cuts through the glass at a sharp angle, turning specks of dust into floating constellations.
Four days ago, I would have been cleaning. Now it seems pointless.
My phone sits face-up on the coffee table. Dark. Silent. I've stopped jumping every time it lights up with a notification. None of them were ever from Ridge.
Four days.
The house is emptier than it was before I met him, which makes no sense. He was never really here. He only slept in my bed once. Yet his absence fills every corner.
I move to the kitchen and pour coffee I don't want intoa mug I don't particularly like. The routine of it is comforting, even if the coffee will go cold before I drink half.
When my phone finally rings, I cross the room in three steps and snatch it up without checking the caller ID.
"Hello?" It comes out as a question rather than a greeting.
"Hey," Delphine's voice comes through warm and careful.
"Hey," I echo, sinking onto the couch.
"You doing okay, friend? I'm worried about you."
The question is simple. My answer is simpler. "He's been gone four days."
I let the words hang between us. There's no embellishment or tears. Just the plain, unvarnished truth that's been settling into my bones hour by hour.
Delphine doesn't rush to fill the silence, nor does she try to offer tired platitudes about other fish in the sea. She just breathes on the other end of the line, sharing the weight of my heartbreak.
"I keep checking my phone." I watch dust motes swirl in the sunbeam. "Not because I think he'll call. Habit, I guess."
"Habits are hard to break," Delphine says finally. "It will get easier, I promise."
"He's not coming back." Saying it out loud doesn't hurt as much as it did yesterday. The pain stays at the top of my chest, constant and dull. "Not to explain or apologize, or even to get the shirt he forgot when he spent the night."
I haven't told her I've fallen asleep with his shirt the last three nights, wanting to smell him.
"Maybe you should reach out to him. Have you considered that?" Delphine asks.
I consider the question. Two weeks ago, I would haverushed to him immediately and raged. Or, I would have plotted some elaborate scheme to make him regret leaving.
Now I'm tired and resigned.
"I'm not going to do that," I say, and the word tastes like surrender. "There's nothing to say to him. If anyone needs to say anything, it would be him. And it's clear that isn't happening."
The truth is simple: I wasn't enough. Whatever Ridge is chasing, whether it be revenge, power, money, it matters more than I do. I've always known who he is. What he is. The mistake was thinking he was above it.
"Do you want me to come over?" Delphine asks.
"No." I close my eyes. "I think I need to sit with this a while longer."
The line goes quiet again. Outside, a car door slams and someone laughs in the distance. The world keeps turning while mine has stopped.
"He made his choice," I whisper, more to myself than to Delphine.
And now I need to make mine.
