Page 219 of Fractured Devotion
Every item in this box is heavier than its weight suggests. Each piece drags through me, anchoring me to a past I never truly owned.
I sit with it for a long moment, letting the ache settle.
Then, with deliberate care, I close the box again.
I nestle it inside the last carton, surrounding it with clothes to keep it safe.
Some things, even when buried, are meant to be carried.
I tape the box shut, pressing down the edges firmly and sealing the past inside with everything else I’m taking with me.
The sun shifts higher outside as I work, casting long shadows across the apartment.
When I finally finish, I check my phone.
A message blinks on the screen:Van will arrive by noon.
I exhale slowly, setting the phone down.
There’s still time to wait.
I move through the apartment, trailing my fingers along the walls and touching the spaces that once held every version of me.
There’s nothing left to pack. The boxes are already stacked by the door, lined up like quiet sentinels. Sealed and final.
Still, I can’t sit still.
I drift toward the kitchen, drawn more by muscle memory than intent. My fingers brush over the handle of the kettle—left behind for convenience, or maybe denial—but I don’t turn it on. There’s no comfort left here. Not in rituals. Not in anything.
Instead, I press my palm flat to the cold countertop, grounding myself.
I feel weightless and heavy at once.
Minutes drag.
I glance toward the window, watching the street below, soundless except for the occasional passerby. The bakery’s awning flutters faintly in the breeze, its familiar blue stripes like a soft beacon.
My phone vibrates again.
Still on track. Noon arrival. Will call when close.
I stare at the message for a moment, then slip the phone into my coat pocket.
I can’t sit here, waiting in this hollowed space.
I need air.
I grab my keys out of habit, then pause, remembering I won’t need them anymore. They stay on the table.
Without another glance, I open the door and step out, pulling it shut behind me with a soft, final click.
My boots echo down the stairs, slow and purposeful. No rush. No fear.
When I step onto the street, the chill kisses my skin. I pull my coat tighter, tucking my hands into my pockets.
The bakery draws me in naturally, as if my body already knows the way without asking for permission.
The doorbell chimes softly as I enter, the warmth inside wrapping around me instantly. The familiar scent of butter and sugar hangs thick in the air, calming in its simplicity.
