“You okay?” he had asked.
I had nodded.
He had stepped behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders.
“You look pale.”
“I didn’t sleep much.”
“I know this is hard.”
I remembered the concern in his eyes.
I remembered wanting to scream.
Instead, I had said, “It will be harder when you’re gone.”
He had kissed the top of my head.
The tenderness of the gesture had been the cruelest part.
Now, alone in the room, I wondered whether any of it had ever been real.
Not all of it could have been false, could it?
There had been Sunday mornings making pancakes. Snowstorms by the fireplace. The night my father died and Lucas held me while I shook so hard I could barely breathe.
Were those lies too?
Or had he loved me in the only way he knew how—until wanting something else became more important than the promises he made?
My phone rang again.
This time the caller ID showed Lucas.
My stomach tightened.
I let it ring once.
Twice.
Then answered.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hey, sweetheart.”
His voice was smooth, warm, familiar.
I closed my eyes.
“Where are you?”
“Still in transit. Long day.”
Not a lie, technically.
“Are you tired?”
“A little. Mostly missing you.”
I looked at the empty half of the closet.
“Me too.”
There was a pause.
“You sound strange.”
“I’ve been crying.”
That part was true.
“Oh, Anne.” His voice softened. “Please don’t do this to yourself.”
Do this to yourself.
Not grieve.
Not miss me.
Do this to yourself.
The phrasing landed with a small, precise sting.
“I’ll be okay,” I said.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
