Aftermath

She missed how he used to leave little pieces of himself behind. Whenever he went to her house, he always sneaked little things in really odd places in her room that she would only end up finding a week later. She would always laugh to herself and tuck it back to the spot she had found it, shaking her head. She used to call him and tell him he had forgotten something, but his response was always the same: I know. Without him really giving her a reason as to why he did that, she just knew.

And now, she knew that if she looked around her room hard enough, she would find the thing he left her when he had left for good. And she looked around her room, wanting to tear up every piece of it until she found it, but instead closed her eyes. She knew his house was free of her, and that wasn’t fair, she thought. Because he could forget her, but her room was built with pieces of him.