"I—"
"You don't even know what today is." I said. "November seventeenth. Ten years since we got together. I waited a whole year for this day. I thought you'd remember. I thought you'd surprise me—even just a word, even just a text."
He went quiet.
"Instead, what I got was her sitting on your lap." I let out a short laugh. "Great surprise. Really outdid yourself."
"Don't do this—"
"Valentine." I said. "You just told me you love me. So tell me. What do you love about me?"
He froze.
I waited.
The rain stopped.
"What do you love about me?" I asked again. "That I'm pretty? That I'm good to you? That I'm obedient? That I never cause you trouble?"
Still nothing.
"You don't love me." I said. "You love easy. You love convenient. You love that no matter how you treat me, I'll never leave."
"I don't—"
"You do." I said. "You always have. You knew I wouldn't leave, so when you said we weren't going public, we didn't go public. When you said you were busy, I behaved. When you were with her, I waited. You knew I couldn't bear to lose you."
I took a deep breath.
"But now I can."
His voice changed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I looked out the window. The moon had come out, pale and half-veiled by clouds. "I'm done waiting. This isn't anger. This isn't a tantrum. This isn't me waiting for you to come coax me back."
"You—"
"Valentine, I'm tired."
I hung up.
Then I powered off my phone and tossed it on the bed.
The apartment was quiet.
In the stillness after the rain, I could hear water dripping from the eaves below, slow and steady, one drop at a time.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the pile of his clothes on the floor, at the scarf I'd crumpled into a ball, at this room I'd lived in for three years, waiting for him for three.
Then I stood up and started packing.
I packed slowly.
Not because I couldn't let go. Because I didn't know where to start.
Everything in this apartment—his, mine—had gotten tangled together long ago.
The drawer full of charging cables. Which ones were his? Which ones were mine?
The lip balm on the nightstand. He always said it was girly, refused to touch it, but every winter when his lips cracked, he'd sneak it on when he thought I wasn't looking.
The heavy comforter on the top shelf of the closet. My mom had shipped it from back home. He said it was too heavy, that it felt like being crushed. But every time I got sick, he'd dig it out himself and tuck it around me.
I crouched there, a charging cable in my fist, suddenly unable to figure out which suitcase it belonged in.
The lock clicked.
I stiffened. Turned toward the bedroom door.
Footsteps. His. Wet ones, squelching with every step—his shoes must have been full of water.
Two seconds of silence in the living room.
Then the bedroom door swung open.
Valentine stood in the doorway, soaked through. His hair hung in dark, wet strands plastered to his forehead. His white dress shirt clung to his chest, so transparent I could see the outline of skin beneath. He was breathing hard, like he'd sprinted up the stairs.
His eyes found me. Then the charging cable in my hand. Then the open suitcase at my feet. Then the pile of clothes on the floor he'd stepped on coming in.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
The night after the rain was so quiet I could hear every breath he took—heavy, ragged, one after another.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
His voice was raw. Scraped down to nothing.
I didn't answer. I dropped the cable into the suitcase, stood up, walked to the closet, and kept pulling things out.
He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my wrist.
His hand was cold. Wet. His fingertips were shaking.
