And for the first time, standing alone in this too-bright kitchen with smoke still clinging to the air, I understand something cold and terrifying:
This isn’t about choosing.
It never was.
It’s about who gets to decide what’s taken from me first.
Scarlett
The suitcase sits open on the bed like a mouth waiting to be fed.
Silk dresses folded too carefully. Linen. Jewellery chosen to look effortless. Shoes that cost more than my car and still somehow feel like shackles when I touch them.
Noah stands behind me, scrolling through his phone, calm and precise and already halfway gone, while I stare at the contents of my life and feel like I’m packing for my own execution.
“Pack light,” he says without looking up. “Everything we need is already there.”
Everything he needs.
I nod.
Because nodding is easier than explaining why my hands are shaking so badly I can’t fasten a bracelet.
Because nodding doesn’t require me to admit that every time I close my eyes, I see darkness and fabric and breath against my ear.
Because nodding is safer than asking questions.
The locket rests against my chest, hidden beneath the neckline of my dress, its weight a constant reminder thatsomething is wrong with me — or maybe something has finally gone right and I’m too terrified to admit it.
I keep touching it.
Like if I let go, it’ll disappear.
Like if I don’t feel the metal, I’ll forget what it means.
Noah notices.
“You’re distracted,” he says mildly, slipping his phone into his pocket. “Is something on your mind?”
I swallow.
“No.”
A lie.
A bad one.
His eyes lift, slow and assessing, scanning my face like a man reading a document he intends to edit later.
“Hm,” he hums. “Try harder.”
I turn back to the suitcase.
Fold another dress.
My pulse hammers.
I shouldn’t feel like this.
