Page 218 of Fractured Devotion
“When?”
“Today,” I say.
Another pause, longer this time.
“Do you need help?” he asks.
I let a small, humorless smile tug at the corner of my mouth.
“No. But thank you.”
He doesn’t push. “You can lean on me, Celeste,” he says tenderly, his words soft but steady. “You don’t have to burn every bridge.”
I swallow the lump in my throat, my gaze fixed on the window where sunlight tries and fails to brighten the room. “Some bridges need to burn,” I reply.
But even I don’t know if I mean it this time.
“Still,” Alec says, his voice gentler now, “if you need a place to land, I’m here. No questions. No strings. Just… here.”
Silence stretches between us, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
It feels like understanding.
Finally, I breathe out slowly.
“Thank you, Alec.”
“Anytime,” he says simply.
The line goes quiet, and I end the call, the weight of everything pressing against me but no longer suffocating.
I glance around the apartment, my gaze lingering on the half-packed boxes stacked by the door.
Clothes. Files. Everything I need to disappear.
But for the first time, it doesn’t feel like running.
It feels like choosing.
I move through the apartment casually.
One by one, I fill the remaining boxes.
Books come first, the ones I can’t leave behind, their spines worn, the pages marked with old notes and faint coffee stains. I wrap them tightly in layers of old clothes, cushioning them as if they’re fragile relics.
Then the files—clinical records, research notes, and personal journals. I stack them with surgical precision, my fingers trailing along every edge, remembering the weight of every decision written inside them.
Photographs follow, though there aren’t many. Most are clinical snapshots, cold and professional. Still, I keep them, not out of sentimentality but out of necessity.
Each item finds its place, sealed in layers of cardboard and tape.
Before sealing the last box, I pause.
I move to the closet, pulling down the old box Irene gave me. The lid creaks faintly as I open it, the scent of old paper and cedar curling into the air.
Inside, the remnants of a life I barely remember wait in careful disarray. My parents’ photographs, faded and soft around the edges, their faces young and bright, locked in moments I can only imagine.
I run my fingers over the brittle notes, my father’s handwriting sharp and angular, my mother’s loops softer and rounder. Their words feel like whispers, stitched with love and the sacrifices they buried in their silence.
