The books were harder.
Our shelves had merged slowly.
Fiction.
History.
Marketing books.
Travel books.
Cookbooks neither of us used enough.
I separated mine.
Vonnegut.
She had bought that book for me at a used bookstore on our second date.
“This is so you.”
I remembered.
I packed it anyway.
Past kindness did not obligate future proximity.
Then the photograph.
Hiking trip in Colorado.
Sarah sunburned across the nose.
Me squinting.
Both laughing.
I stared longer than I should have.
Then turned it facedown and placed it beneath my clothes.
I did not throw it away.
Destroying history felt childish.
The relationship had existed.
That did not mean it still existed.
At 9:02, I texted Jake.
You awake?
His reply came almost immediately.
Always.
Need couch. And a ride if possible.
Three dots.
What happened?
Later.
I’m coming.
Fifteen minutes.
Sarah did not knock again.
Her bedroom door eventually closed.
I carried the first suitcase to the front entrance.
Then the second.
Then my laptop bag and document box.
At 9:26, Jake texted:
Outside.
I stood in the living room one last time.
Five years of memories did not appear like a movie.
I expected them to.
Nothing.
Just furniture.
Couch.
Lamp.
Coffee table.
Two plates still drying beside the sink.
The roasted chicken I had made remained inside the refrigerator.
I thought:
She can have it.
Then opened the door.
I did not leave a note.
There was nothing I could write that would improve the situation.
I stepped outside.
Closed the door.
Walked away.
Jake took one look at the luggage.
“Damn.”
I nodded.
He opened the trunk.
No interrogation.
That was friendship.
On the road, he waited ten minutes before asking:
“You good?”
“No.”
Then:
“But I will be.”
That answer surprised me.
It was also true.
My phone lit.
Sarah.
I know you need space, but please tell me you’re okay.
Another message.
I didn’t want it to happen like this.
Then:
Can we please talk tomorrow?
Then:
I still love you.
I stared.
Jake glanced over.
“You answering?”
“No.”
“Want advice?”
“No.”
“Good.”
I almost laughed.
At the next red light, I blocked Sarah’s number.
Then Instagram.
Facebook.
Everything else.
I blocked Chloe too.
And Sarah’s two closest friends, Amanda and Jess.
Not because they had done something.
Because I knew how this worked.
They would become channels.
I wanted silence.
Complete silence.
At Jake’s apartment, he made frozen pizza.
We sat on his couch.
Eventually, I told him.
He did not interrupt.
When I reached:
“Can we still be best friends?”
Jake closed his eyes.
“No.”