He’s not enough.
He never was.
Not for her.
Not for the version of her that used to curl under my arm in the back seat of my car and whisper that she didn’t care what the world thought — that she’d burn it down if it tried to take me away.
That girl is still in there.
Buried under diamonds and dinners and designer fucking charity dresses.
I’m going to dig her out with my teeth if I have to.
My jaw flexes.
The envelope in my pocket feels heavier the longer I wait. Like it knows its destination. Like it wants to be in her hands already, pressed against her heartbeat, feeding the panic I planted in her this morning.
I imagine her right now — stumbling around that pretty house barefoot, the locket hitting her collarbones, wine on her breath, voicemail carved behind her eyes like scripture.
I imagine her whispering my name in the empty kitchen.
Not Noah’s.
Mine.
Something hot tightens beneath my sternum. Almost painful.
“She still loves me,” I say into the dim room, and the admission tastes like blood and victory.
I grab my jacket fully, shrug it over my shoulders, shove my phone into the pocket.
But I don’t leave.
Because then I see it.
The corner.
The box.
The thing I don’t like looking at — not because I’m ashamed, but because it sets off something so violent in me I have to steady myself not to act on instinct.
It’s a small chest the size of a bedside drawer. Wood. Black. Heavy. The lock on it massive, industrial, one I bought because it reminded me of the sound cell doors make when they slam shut.
I crouch.
Unlock it.
Slow.
The lid lifts with a stiff groan.
Inside?
Everything I stole back.
Her perfume bottle — half-empty, cap cracked.
A napkin from the coffee shop she used to work in, her doodles in the corner.
