Morning comes too fast.
Grey light filters through the curtains. The room is cool.
Jake gets up early, like always. I keep my eyes closed when he moves, pretending I’m asleep.
I feel the bed dip as he sits to pull on socks. I hear the quiet rustle of clothes. The soft click of his watch clasping around his wrist.
He pauses near the bed, but then just leaves.
The door clicks quietly behind him.
And the silence that follows is enormous.
I sit up slowly, hair falling around my face, heart pounding.
Bear is already awake now. “Hey,” I whisper, kneeling down. “Hi, buddy.”
He presses his head into my chest.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
I stroke his fur slowly.
“I’m going to give him space,” I tell him, even though it feels like I’m really saying it to myself.
Bear huffs like he disagrees.
I stand up and look around the room.
My toothbrush is in the bathroom beside his.
My brush is on the dresser.
My favorite hoodie of his is draped over the chair.
There are small pieces of me everywhere.
Like I’ve been here forever.
I take a shaky breath and walk to the closet.
I pack slowly and methodically.
I fold clothes and place them into my suitcase. I wrap my art supplies in a towel. I tuck in my sketchbook.
I pause when my fingers brush Jake’s hoodie.
The one I love.
It’s soft and worn, smells like him and laundry detergent and something that feels like safety.
I hold it against my face for half a second.
Then I fold it and put it in the suitcase.
Bear reappears in the doorway with a toy in his mouth and drops it at my feet like he’s offering solutions.
I laugh once, broken and wet.
