It doesn’t smell like her. It doesn’t smell like anything actually. Just cheap elastic and my own sweaty palm, but somehow my chest still pulls tight.
She walked out of here with a truck full of boxes and more composure than I deserved.
And I just stood there in the doorway like a coward and watched.
“Take care of yourself, Jace.”
I close my eyes.
The way she said it wasn’t bitter, or dramatic. It sounded… tired. Like she’d finally stopped trying to hold the whole thing together by herself.
Like she’d been doing that for a long time.
I lean back, head tipping against the cushion, and stare at the ceiling.
We fought. We made up. We pretended. We tried again. We put a ring on it and called it doing the right thing. We put a house around it and called it stability.
And under all of it, something was always off.
I knew it. She knew it.
We just didn’t want to say it out loud, because once you do, you can’t shove it back in the box.
Griff did it for us tonight.
You didn’t choose her.
I swallow hard.
There was a time I thought I did. A time I told myself I was all in, that whatever came before didn’t matter, that I could build something solid out of what we had if I just tried hard enough.
But trying and choosing aren’t the same thing.
Choosing is a decision you make every day. Not just when it’s convenient or when the guilt’s loud.
I stare at my hands, flex my fingers, feel the sting where I fisted them too tight earlier. I can still feel Knox’s eyes on me, calm and steady, when he stepped between me and Griff like he’d been expecting to need to.
I can still see Sierra’s face when Griff said the words.
You broke her.
She flinched, just once. It was quick. If you didn’t know her, you might’ve missed it. But I didn’t. I’ve watched that girl pretend she’s fine for years. I know the exact way her mouth tightens when someone hits a bruise she thought she’d covered.
And I did that.
Maybe not on purpose or with malice. But intent doesn’t cancel the impact. It just makes it quieter.
I drop the hair tie on the coffee table and push to my feet.
The house feels like a museum now. Every room a display of what used to be ours. I wander toward the kitchen because it’s easier than sitting still.
There’s a single mug left by the sink, lipstick smudge faint on the rim. It’s not fresh. I can’t remember the last time she actually sat across from me with a full cup of coffee and nowhere else to be.
The fridge is mostly empty. A half carton of eggs. A takeout container we forgot about. One lone sticky note, crooked near the handle.
I step closer.
It’s one of hers. The loopy handwriting gives it away before I even focus on the words.
