They loaded up the boxes together. He carried the box of books, and she carried the pillows. Just as they had done every other time, she organized; he boxed. Together, they loaded.
Tears streamed down her face as she stared at the brick facade of the home they’d shared. Her pinky finger reached for him, as she’d always done, but then she remembered — this time was different.
He stood at the driver’s door, helping her in, and she touched his jaw then — feeling it tense below her palm.
Love still burned under this skin.
But their road together had ended. She wished there was anger or something — anything, but it was just sadness and so much certainty.
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