For one suspended second, I did not remember.
Then I lifted my hand.
Bare.
My chest tightened, but I could breathe.
Lena was in the kitchen, speaking softly into her phone.
“She’s here,” she said. “No, I’m not telling you where. Because she asked for space, Grant, and for once you are going to respect a sentence that does not benefit you.”
I sat up.
Her eyes met mine. She did not look apologetic.
“He’s called twelve times,” she said after hanging up. “He also sent three messages to my gallery account, one to my old roommate, and one to my mother, who enjoyed declining him very much.”
Despite everything, I smiled.
Then the smile faded.
“What did he say?”
“That he needs to know you’re safe.”
“I told him I was safe.”
“Yes. Apparently he believed your handwriting less than my irritation.”
I looked toward the window. A delivery truck idled outside. A man in a yellow raincoat carried boxes into the stationery shop below. Ordinary life had the audacity to continue.
Lena set a mug in front of me.
“He also said he read the letter.”
My throat tightened.
“I shouldn’t care.”
“You care because you loved him.”
“Past tense?”
She sat across from me. “That’s your decision.”
The problem was that love had not vanished when I walked out. It had come with me, bruised and tired, hiding among my sweaters. I hated that. I wanted leaving to feel like cutting a ribbon, clean and ceremonial. Instead, it felt like walking away from a house that was burning while remembering every room before the fire.
After breakfast, Lena took me to her studio.
