I saw the story from my bed.

Aylin's face, soft-lit and glowing, tilted just slightly toward the camera the way people do when they know exactly what angle works. The caption read: *grateful for real friends who actually show up 🤍*

Donovan's name was tagged.

I lay there with the phone above my face, blankets pulled to my chin, fever sitting heavy behind my eyes. My throat felt like gravel. My skin felt like a sunburn that covered everything.

Then Naomi's story loaded. A simple text post, white letters on a pale background: *she had a really rough night but she's okay now. thanks to the right people.*

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I put the phone face-down on the nightstand and didn't pick it up again.

Outside, Seattle was doing what Seattle does — grey sky, grey light, rain tapping the window in no particular hurry. I pulled the blanket tighter and closed my eyes and let the fever do what it wanted. There was nothing left to fight.

---

I slept. I woke up. I drank water from the glass on the nightstand and slept again. Kiara texted — I could feel the buzzing — but I didn't open it. Not yet. I needed the quiet more than I needed the comfort.

The fever broke sometime on the second day. I know because I woke up and the sheets were damp and the ceiling looked sharp again, edges clear, the way things look after a long blur.

I lay there for a while, just breathing.

Then my phone lit up.

*hey, been busy, how are you*

Donovan. Forty-eight hours after he'd driven away and left me standing in the rain. Forty-eight hours after I'd called three times and watched the green dot glow. *Hey, been busy, how are you.* Like a Tuesday. Like nothing.

I read it twice.

I set the phone down on the kitchen table and sat there in the grey morning light and waited to feel something. Anger. Sadness. The old familiar pull to pick the phone back up and answer and make it okay again.

Nothing came.

Just stillness. The kind that fills a room after something loud has stopped. The kind you don't realize you've been waiting for until it finally arrives.

I wasn't angry. I wasn't sad.

I was finished.

---

I started in the bedroom.

The photograph from his birthday two years ago — the one where we're both laughing at something I can't even remember anymore — came off the shelf first. Then the one from the coast. Then the one Kiara took of us at Marcus's rooftop thing, back when rooftop things were still good. I stacked them face-down in a cardboard box I'd broken down and reassembled from the recycling corner.

The scarf he gave me for Christmas. Still soft. Still folded the way I'd always kept it. In.

The birthday earrings — gold hoops, pretty enough, chosen without much thought. In.

The first-edition novel he'd found at a market stall. He'd been so pleased with himself. I'd smiled and thanked him and never actually liked it. In.

I worked slowly. Not because it was hard. Because I wanted to do it right. Five years deserved more than a frantic sweep. They deserved this — careful hands, deliberate choices, each thing acknowledged before it was let go.

The box filled up.

I went to the bathroom last. Opened the small dish on the counter where I kept it. The red cord bracelet sat there, fraying at one end, the knot he'd tied still holding after all this time. He'd made it from craft store string when he was twenty-two and broke and certain about everything. I'd worn it for three years before the clasp broke and I'd moved it to the dish instead of throwing it away.

I picked it up.

I held it in my palm for a moment. Not long. Just long enough.

Then I placed it on top of everything else, right in the center, and folded the box flaps closed.

---

I wrote his address in neat handwriting. No note inside. There was nothing left to explain.

The post office was three blocks away. The woman at the counter didn't look up when she weighed it. I paid. She printed the label. I watched her set the box on the cart behind her, and then it was gone, and I walked back out into the grey Seattle morning.

I stood on the sidewalk for a second. Cars went past. A woman with a stroller. A man eating a breakfast sandwich.

Then I took my phone out and blocked his number. Instagram. Twitter. Everything. One by one, clean and quiet, like pulling a plug from a wall.

No drama. No explanation. No last look.

Just a door, closing softly, from the inside.