This isn’t how love was supposed to feel.
Chapter 6
Malcolm
It’sbeenthreedaysand nothing. Not a call or a text. It’s been radio silence. Except for the box that was left on the floor just inside my apartment.
At first I was confused. There wasn’t anything on it indicating who it was from. It could’ve been a bomb for all I know, and yet, I picked it up and carried it further into my house. Normally, curiosity would get the best of me if it weren’t for the security I have in my apartment. It can only be from one person. I set the heavy box on the floor in front of the couch and make my way to the kitchen and get a pair of scissors from the junk drawer. Stopping by the fridge, I grab a beer, twist off the top, then head back to the living room.
I grip the scissors loosely in my hand, the cold metal pressing against my palm as I set the beer on the coffee table. The box waits for me like a secret—it sits on the floor, sealed with thick tape and silent promises.
Taking a deep breath, I sit down slowly on the edge of the couch, knees brushing against the cardboard. The scissors slipunder the tape with a soft ripping sound and I flip the flaps open, exposing the contents inside.
At first, I don’t register what I’m looking at. It’s just a blur of colors and textures. But then my heart trips over itself. When the light goes off in my brain, I understand what the box holds.
My clothes. My toothbrush. Half-used bottles of shampoo and conditioner. My cologne, it was his favorite that I wore. A birthday card I gave him. I didn’t even realize I’d given it to him. A key chain with the key to the building on it. All dumped into a box and left like trash for me to clean up.
He didn’t even leave a note.
My stomach lurches and for a second, I wish it had been a bomb—because at least that would’ve made sense. At least then the explosion would’ve been external. Not this quiet, devastating implosion inside me. This isn’t just stuff. This is rejection in cardboard form. This is his silence, his decision, wrapped up and sealed with packing tape.
It’s over. He’s erasing every piece of me from his life.
And the worst part?
When he dropped it off. He planned it perfectly. He made sure I wasn’t going to be home, so he wouldn’t have to face me.
He calls me a coward for not coming out, but he’s one, too.
I’m already reaching for my phone before I realize what I’m doing. Fingers hover over the screen. My chest rises and falls with tight, shallow breaths. Should I call him? Text? Scream? Say nothing?
My thumb trembles over the keyboard. An internal debate raging within me. Confront him or not.
The message is already written before I know it.
Me: You really couldn’t even look me in the eye?
No. That’s not good enough. I immediately clear it out and type again.
Me: Thanks for the trash delivery.
Nope. That’s not right either. Too bitter. Not me.
Me: Why now? What changed? Why the sudden need for me to come out?
I stare at it for a minute, warring with myself if it’s the right message. My eyes stay locked on the screen, the weight of the box still pressing down on my lap like it’s full of bricks instead of memories. Do I send it? Is this the right one to not only convey how I’m feeling? A message that will earn a response from him?
Nope, that’s not it. Suddenly it clicks and my fingers fly across the screen.
Me: Got the box. That’s how you wanted to say goodbye?
I hit send.
And wait.
The little checkmark shows that it was delivered and read.
But he doesn’t reply back.
