"You do." I said. "You always have. You knew I wouldn't leave, so when you said we weren't going public, we didn't go public. When you said you were busy, I behaved. When you were with her, I waited. You knew I couldn't bear to lose you."
I took a deep breath.
"But now I can."
His voice changed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I looked out the window. The moon had come out, pale and half-veiled by clouds. "I'm done waiting. This isn't anger. This isn't a tantrum. This isn't me waiting for you to come coax me back."
"You—"
"Valentine, I'm tired."
I hung up.
Then I powered off my phone and tossed it on the bed.
The apartment was quiet.
In the stillness after the rain, I could hear water dripping from the eaves below, slow and steady, one drop at a time.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the pile of his clothes on the floor, at the scarf I'd crumpled into a ball, at this room I'd lived in for three years, waiting for him for three.
Then I stood up and started packing.
I packed slowly.
Not because I couldn't let go. Because I didn't know where to start.
Everything in this apartment—his, mine—had gotten tangled together long ago.