But Loriana didn’t disappear.
She sent photos every day.
One of them was walking barefoot on the beach. Another sitting by a campfire in the mountains.
Another with their hands linked, driving through open fields.
“These were our old spots,” she wrote. “He still remembers them.”
I scrolled through every picture.
He’d taken me to those same places too. Back then, I thought he was building new memories with me. Turns out, I’d just been a body to fill an empty frame.
By the fifth night, I started packing.
All the jewelry he bought me. All the dresses he chose. All the shoes, the handbags, the perfume he said smelled like “his girl.”
Box after box, I sealed them up and pushed them into the storage room. I didn’t even cry this time. When he finally came home, his suitcase hit the floor with a soft thud. He looked around, confused.
“Baby? What are you doing? Why’s the closet half-empty?”
I didn’t look up. “Just getting rid of stuff I don’t need.”
He chuckled a little, like I was being dramatic again, then reached into his bag. “Look what I found for you.”