Next came the photos and portraits. Each one captured a moment of our carefully curated life—vacations in sun-drenched cities, birthday celebrations, slow mornings in bed, laughter frozen in time. We had smiled in every single one, seemingly perfect, seemingly inseparable. They had once been evidence of love; now, they were proof of how blind I had been. Looking at them made my stomach churn, each memory a reminder of the cracks I had ignored, the betrayal I had justified.
It didn’t matter anymore. Caleb had not returned in over two weeks. In his absence, I buried myself in work. Designing gowns for high-profile clients and preparing for the upcoming bond ceremony kept my hands busy and my mind partially distracted. But at night, I returned to the apartment and the task of erasing our history, every item I packed drawing me deeper into heartbreak until I cried myself into numbness.