I stared at that photo until my vision blurred. It felt painfully familiar, like being seventeen again—standing on the sidelines while their love unfolded in front of everyone else.
A sudden cramp twisted low in my abdomen. Instinctively, I shut the phone off and pressed a hand to my stomach.
I’m leaving anyway, I thought dully. Why torture myself?
I rose and began to pack.
The matching toothbrushes went into the trash. The mugs I’d chosen for us. The throw pillows that once made our home feel warm and shared—every trace of “us” disappeared into black bags.
Just as I tied one shut, the front door opened.
Ronan stepped inside.
He glanced at the mess, then at me. “Didn’t you like those things?” he asked casually. “Why throw them away?”
I kept my gaze lowered, my fingers numb, my tone deliberately light.
“They’re worn out. I got sick of them.”
A part of me waited—hoped—he’d notice something was wrong. That he’d ask again.
He didn’t.
Instead, he crossed the room like nothing was out of place, rested his palm over my belly, and spoke softly to the pup inside. “Behave today, hm? Your father’s back.”