No.
No, that wasn’t right.
Colton wasn’t—
He wouldn’t be packing.
Would he?
I walked forward without thinking, without knowing where I was going—just moving. More boxes. Right in front of me. Unavoidable, undeniable.
I wasn’t sure if my heart was racing or if everything had gone still.
Had I really let myself believe this was different? That he was different?
I moved past the couch, fingers brushing over the fabric like it might somehow make this feel less real. It didn’t. The stupid donut bag crinkled in my grip—like a reminder of how ridiculous I was. Of how I had let hope creep in where it didn’t belong.
He had said all the right things.Made all the right changes.And I let myself believe him. Too fast. Too easily.
Because this, this—was proof I had been wrong.
I let myself believe I mattered. That I was enough to keep him here. And now? The boxes said otherwise. I turned, pace slow, aimless, scanning the space as if it might offer some explanation. Some excuse.
But there wasn’t one. Just boxes. And a countdown clock I hadn’t realized was ticking.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway.
Colton stepped into the room, another box in his arms, his posture tense—like he had been running scenarios in his head all morning but hadn’t landed on the right one yet.
Then he saw me. And froze mid-step.
The box shifted slightly in his grip, his shoulders stiffening.
“Riley.”
Just that. My name. Nothing else. The sound of it sank into the air, heavy and unfinished.
I swallowed. My fingers tightened around the crinkled donut bag. "Your door was open,” I said, but my voice barely made it past my lips.
Silence settled between us. Thick. Uncomfortable. The kind that made every heartbeat feel loud enough to hear.
Neither of us moved.
Say something.
SAY SOMETHING.
My heart hammered, waiting, willing him to fill the silence with an explanation—any explanation—that would make this make sense.
But he didn’t.
Colton just stood there, box still in his hands, like he hadn’t planned for this moment, like he wasn’t ready to say what needed to be said.
The waiting curled tight in my chest, breath caught between hope and dread, until finally—I couldn’t hold it in anymore.
"You’re leaving?"
It wasn’t a question. It was an accusation.
