I point myself toward the kitchen. Opening the refrigerator confirms my suspicions. There’s not even a bottle of ketchup in it. Who doesn’t have at least an entire row of expired condiments in their fridge?
My arms hang heavy at my sides while I move through his apartment like I’m touring a museum exhibit. It would be titledHow the lonely pretend to thrive.
Each room is colder than the one before.
What the heck did he think of my house, with the explosions of color and clutter and all those skincare masks I bought off Instagram but haven’t got around to using?
He must have hated it.
I run my finger along the color-coded clothing hanging in his closet. It’s so different than my assortment of rainbow-colored hangers shooting off in every direction.
His home is an operating table for life—sterile, perfunctory, clinical.
The last room I enter is the one to give me pause—his office. I can almost smell him here. The entire room is lined with bookcases and books that have clearly been read and loved more than once.
Sitting behind his desk, I spin in his chair to take it all in and come face-to-face with my life’s work.
Every copy and edition. The one sticking out is nearly in tatters as I remove it from the wall. It’s my very first book.
Flipping through the pages, I notice there are passages underlined, and notes in the margins. Handwriting I’d recognize anywhere.
He didn’t just read this book.
He lived in it.
I found salvation in the letters I wrote him.
He found salvation through my words that felt like home.
He may not have remembered me, but some part of him—the part that matters—never forgot.
This cold, lifeless apartment isn’t who Valen is. It’s who he became when he lost his North Star, and the only color, the only life, the only evidence of love in this entire space…is me.
My books. My words. The stories I wrote about a prince named Valor who always saved his princess.
He wasn’t protecting himself by building this empty life.
He was holding space for when he eventually found his way back to me.
“Where are you, Valen?”
My phone, the only thing I brought with me, vibrates in my pocket. I scramble to remove it but deflate when I see Roman’s name on the screen.
“He’s not here,” I say by way of answering. “I flew all the way here, and his apartment is empty. Like, really empty. Is—is this how he lives, or did he—did he?—”
“Breathe, Clover.” Roman’s voice is gentle but firm.
I’m so tired of people telling me to breathe. I am breathing, damn it. If I wasn’t, I’d have passed out a hundred times already.
“Valen left Charlotte hours ago. He’s on his way back to Happiness.”
The words don’t compute.
“I finally got a hold of him,” Roman says. “He knows leaving was a colossal fuckup, and he’s coming home. You probably passed over him somewhere in South Carolina.”
A laugh bubbles out of me—half disbelief, half relief. “He’s coming back to Happiness?”
“He never should have left, and he knows it.” Roman’s smiling, even if I can’t see it. “We’ve got a flight home for you. Our captain will have the plane ready to go in an hour. Can you get to the Monroe Airport, or do you want me to arrange a car?”
