The suitcase is open on my bed.
Again.
It takes a second for my brain to accept it. The way the fabric dips in the middle. The zipper teeth spread apart like a mouth waiting to be fed. I stand in the doorway longer than necessary, one hand braced against the frame, as if hesitation might stop what has already started.
It does not.
Packing no longer feels like a choice. It feels like a reflex. Something my body does when my chest gets too full and there is nowhere else for the weight to go.
I move through the room slowly. Not dragging my feet. Not rushing either. Clothes first. The familiar ones. The ones that do not ask questions. I fold them the way Grandma taught me, careful and neat, edges aligned, even though no one is watching. Even though it makes no difference.
Halfway through, the pattern makes itself known.
I packed after Grandma died.
I packed when Lena left New York without really leaving me.
And now I am packing again, because Lena's life has continued without me.
I stop with a shirt caught halfway between folded and forgotten. My fingers tighten around the fabric before I realize I am holding my breath.
The room has not changed. The college posters still cling to the walls. The desk by the window still leans slightly to one side. The mattress still carries the shallow dip where I have slept for years, always favoring the same edge.
Nothing here knows what has happened.
Except me.
I kneel to pull my old duffel bag from under the bed. My hand brushes against something thin and papery. I pause, then draw it out carefully.
A folded note.
I already know what it is.
Grandma's handwriting is unmistakable. Rounded letters, patient and deliberate, like she believed words needed time to settle before they could mean anything. I unfold it anyway.
Eat properly.
Call when you reach.
I'm proud of you.
No date. No name. She never bothered with either.
My throat tightens. Not enough to break. Just enough to remind me something is still lodged there. My fingers tremble slightly, then still. I wait for tears that do not come. Instead, my body stalls, suspended between reaction and restraint, like it has forgotten which one comes next.
I fold the note back the same way she did and slip it into the side pocket of the suitcase. Not the main compartment. Somewhere safer.
Next, I reach for a book.
It has been sitting on my shelf for years, the spine bent from use. I remember lending it to Lena once, back when sharing things felt like a promise instead of a risk. She dog eared pages. Wrote small notes in the margins. Left pieces of herself behind without meaning to.
I run my thumb over one of them.
This part feels like you.
My chest tightens again, sharper this time. I close the book carefully and place it in the suitcase. I do not know if I will ever open it. I only know that leaving it behind feels like pretending something never existed.
I sit on the edge of the bed and look at the open bag. At the half packed life staring back at me.
The thought arrives without asking permission.
I leave places when something in them dies.
It does not land like a revelation. It settles instead. Heavy. Familiar. A truth I have been carrying for a long time without giving it a name.
The guilt that follows is quieter than it used to be. No panic. No sharp edges. Just exhaustion. Like something worn thin from being held too tightly for too long.
I press my palms into my knees and stare at the floor.
Am I running?
Or am I surviving in the only way I know how?
The room offers no answer. It never does.
I stand and keep packing.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
Dad is in the backyard, pretending the shed needs fixing.
I know this because the shed has needed fixing for years, and today he is standing in front of it with a wrench in his hand, loosening and tightening the same bolt like it personally betrayed him. The radio plays softly beside him. Some old station cycling through songs from before disappointment became a shared language.
I pause by the back door, watching him through the screen. He has not noticed me yet. Or maybe he has and is hoping I will disappear if he waits long enough.
I do not.
The wooden step creaks as I step outside. He looks up immediately.
"Oh," he says, startled. "You, uh. I was just…"
"Fixing the shed," I say.
He clears his throat. "Yeah. It has been acting up."
I nod like this is a reasonable explanation. The shed remains unimpressed.
I lean against the railing, arms crossed. The late afternoon sun casts everything in a soft, forgiving light it has not earned. Dad returns his attention to the bolt. The wrench squeaks. He frowns at it, like it might decide to leave him too.
"So," he says eventually, trying for casual and missing. "You heading to Brooklyn soon?"
"Tomorrow."
"Right. That is good. Good opportunity."
"Yeah."
Silence settles between us. He switches tools. Puts it down almost immediately. I can practically hear him testing sentences in his head, weighing which ones might crack if dropped.
"I ran into Mrs. Klein today," he says finally. "At the store."
I say nothing.
"She asked how you were doing." A pause. "I told her you were busy."
I swallow. Busy feels like a kindness.
Then he says the name.
"And Lena?"
He places it between us carefully, like something fragile on uneven ground.
I shake my head once. Not sharply. Just enough.
"Let's not," I say.
He nods right away, relief flashing across his face, followed closely by regret. "Okay. Of course."
I expect him to turn the radio up. To retreat into tools and noise. He does not.
He stands there instead, staring at the shed like it might explain him to himself.
"I never knew how to help you with things like this," he says quietly.
I look at him.
His shoulders sag. His hands hang useless at his sides. He looks older like this. Not broken. Just human.
"I knew how to fix things," he continues, words coming faster now. "School problems. Money. Roof leaks. All that practical stuff." He lets out a small, humorless breath. "But feelings. Heartbreak. I always thought time would take care of it."
I stay silent.
"I figured if I gave you space," he says, "you would come out stronger. Like I did."
The word did sits there, untouched.
"You did not abandon me," I say softly.
He flinches, like he was not prepared for that.
"I know you think you did," I add. "But you did not."
He finally looks at me. His eyes are red, but he keeps everything contained.
"I wanted to be better," he says. "I just did not know how."
"I know."
That is as far as we get.
There is no hug. No dramatic release. Just two men in a backyard, acknowledging the limits of their reach.
He nods once, like we have agreed on something important.
"If you need anything," he says. "In Brooklyn. Anything."
"I know where you are," I reply.
A faint smile touches his mouth. "Yeah. You do."
He turns the radio up, signaling the end. I head back toward the house.
Behind me, the shed remains unfixed.
And for once, I do not pretend it ever will be.