Each item carried a memory of tenderness now past, and I was the one to end it all.
Once I finished, I sent the suitcase to the address my mom had given me.
That night, Ross stumbled through the door, reeking of alcohol and a faint, lingering trace of another woman’s scent.
His steps wobbled, but the moment he saw me, he smiled and threw himself into my arms.
“Babe…” His voice was hoarse, softened by drunken warmth. “Are you mad at me again? Don’t be like this. I missed you.”
I recoiled from him, dizzy from the smell of alcohol.
He froze, vulnerability flashing briefly across his face. His voice turned husky. “You… don’t love me anymore, do you? Why are you pushing me away?”
I looked at his blurred face, feeling my heart sink bit by bit.
“Ross,” I said softly, “you’re the one who stopped loving me first.”
But he didn’t hear me.
He slumped onto the couch and quickly fell into a heavy sleep.
The next morning, he rubbed his forehead, sitting up with a dazed look as if he’d forgotten everything about the night before, staring at his wrinkled shirt and smelling of alcohol.