I walked past the barbecue place we always used to go to. The owner was closing up for the night. She spotted me and paused. "Hey, sweetie, all by yourself tonight? Where's that man of yours?"

I gave her a smile and kept walking.

A little further down, I passed the bus stop. Once, after a fight, I'd jumped out of the car and bolted. He chased me down, grabbed my arm, and pulled me into his chest. I struggled twice but couldn't break free. He told me to knock it off, said we'd talk about it at home. I said I wasn't going home. So he threw me over his shoulder.

I kicked him. He smacked my butt and said if I kicked him again, he'd toss me in the dumpster.

The people waiting at the stop all laughed.

I laughed too. And somewhere in the laughing, I stopped being angry.

I was twenty-four then. He was twenty-six.

I thought that was forever.

Now I looked up at the same bus stop. Empty. Rain had soaked the bench through. A flyer on the ad board was waterlogged, its edges peeling, drooping down like something giving up.

I stood there for a while. Drenched to the bone. Hair plastered to my face. Water running down my neck and pooling inside my collar.

Then I kept walking.

At the apartment gate, Old Mr. Barrow leaned out of the guard booth. "Oh, honey, look at you! You're soaked through. Come in and dry off!"

I waved him off, swiped my card, and went in.

I was alone in the elevator. The mirror showed me a wreck of a person. Hair hanging in wet clumps. Eye makeup smeared into two dark streaks down my face. Clothes clinging to my body like I'd just been fished out of a river.

I stared at the woman in the mirror.

Who was she?

I'd followed her for ten years, and suddenly I didn't recognize her.

The elevator doors opened. I stepped out, fumbled for my keys, unlocked the door.

The apartment was dark.

I didn't turn on the lights. Just stood in the entryway, breathing in the familiar scent. The lemongrass diffuser I'd bought. He said it smelled like dish soap. I told him he didn't know the first thing about anything.

His car keys were still sitting on the entryway console. He'd taken my car to the bar tonight, said his had an odd plate number and couldn't be on the road.

His shoes were on the rack. Sneakers tossed at lazy angles, sprawled next to my boots, which were lined up perfectly.

In the living room, the instant noodle cup from last night was still sitting on the coffee table. He hadn't thrown it away.

His jacket was draped over the couch, tossed there when he left that morning. I hadn't folded it. Just left it where it landed.

I walked into the bedroom. My side of the bed was neat. His side was a tangle of blankets balled up, pillow knocked sideways.

The closet door hung open. He'd torn through it looking for clothes that morning, and my T-shirts had been shoved to one side, wrinkled into a ball.

I stood in the middle of the bedroom, dripping water onto the floor.

Then I walked to the closet, pulled open his side, and started yanking his clothes out one by one. Throwing them on the ground.

Dress shirts. T-shirts. Hoodies. Jeans. The coat I'd bought him. The scarf I'd knitted. Two months I'd spent on that scarf, pricked my fingers more times than I could count. He never wore it. Not once. Said it was ugly.

All of it, on the floor.

Then I crouched down, picked up the coat, and held it against my chest.

It still smelled like him. Aftershave. Cigarettes. A faint trace of liquor.

I buried my face in it and breathed in deep.

Then I let go and threw it back on the pile.

I stood up, walked into the bathroom, and turned on the shower.

Hot water poured over me, and my body finally stopped shaking. I stood under the stream with my eyes closed, mind blank. Not thinking about anything.

I didn't know how long I stayed like that. When I finally stepped out, the mirror was completely fogged over. I reached up and wiped a streak through the condensation, and my face appeared.

White. Eyes swollen. Lips drained of color.

I stared at that face for a long time.

Then I walked out and picked up my phone.

A flood of unread messages.

From a coworker: "Girl, what happened?? What's that flower on your social media about?"

A text from a friend: Did you and Valentine get into a fight?

A text from my mom: Sweetie, coming home for dinner next week? I'll make ribs.

I replied to each one.

I'm fine.

We didn't fight.

Yeah, I'll be there Saturday.

When I was done, I opened the photo of that wilting rose and stared at it for a long time.

Then I deleted the post.

My phone buzzed again.

Unknown number. This time, a call.

I picked up.

"What the hell do you want?" Valentine's voice, raw, like he'd smoked through an entire pack.

I didn't say anything.

"I've been out looking for you for hours. I'm soaked to the bone, you won't pick up, you won't text back. What do you want from me?"

I still didn't say anything.

"Say something."

"Say what?"

He choked on that.

"Tell me what you want." His voice dropped low. "Just tell me. I'll give it to you."

I looked out the window. The rain was still falling. A film of condensation clung to the glass.

"You've always known what I want," I said. "But after ten years, you never gave me any of it."

He went quiet.

"Valentine. Do you love me?"

Silence.

Rain. Breathing. Somewhere far away, the sound of a car plowing through standing water.

"Why are you asking me that?"

"Just answer the question."

More silence.

Then he said, "I love you."

Quiet. Quick. Like the words had been pried out of him.

I heard those three words and realized I felt nothing.

"Then why didn't you ever say it?" I asked. "Ten years. Why couldn't you say it to me?"

"I... couldn't get the words out."

"What about someone else?"

"What?"

"Rosalie," I said. "Could you get the words out for her?"

He panicked. "What does she have to do with this? I already told you, she's just—"

"Think carefully before you answer." I cut him off. "Valentine, think very carefully. Have you ever told her you loved her?"

He went silent.

"Even if it wasn't love," I said. "That you liked her. That you felt sorry for her. That you wanted to protect her. Did you ever say any of that?"

Rain.

Breathing.

Silence.

"She saved my life when we were kids." His voice came out muffled, sudden. "I was eight. I fell into a river and she jumped in after me. She nearly drowned too."

I closed my eyes.

"So I..." he said. "If something happens to her, I can't just do nothing."

"I know."

"Then why are you—"

"Valentine." I opened my eyes and stared at the fog on the glass. "She saved you when you were eight. I met you when I was twenty-four."

He said nothing.

"She saved your life, and you've carried that debt for twenty years." I said. "I gave you ten years of mine. Did you ever carry that?"

"I did."

"Carried what, exactly?"

He went silent again.

"You remembered that I cooked for you. That I did your laundry. That I kept the apartment clean." I said. "You remembered that I waited for you, no matter how late you came home. You remembered that I never made a scene, never started a fight, never asked you for anything."

"..."

"You remembered that I was easy." I said. "That I was low-maintenance. That I'd always be there, never needing your attention, never needing you to worry, never making you afraid of losing me."

The rain eased.

"But you don't know what my favorite food is," I said. "You don't know when I get off work. You don't know that I'm afraid of the dark, afraid of thunder, afraid of being alone. You don't know that every time I sat in this apartment waiting for you, waiting past midnight, waiting until I fell asleep, all I'd get was a text saying you weren't coming home."

"I—"

"You don't even know what today is." I said. "November seventeenth. Ten years since we got together. I waited a whole year for this day. I thought you'd remember. I thought you'd surprise me—even just a word, even just a text."

He went quiet.

"Instead, what I got was her sitting on your lap." I let out a short laugh. "Great surprise. Really outdid yourself."

"Don't do this—"

"Valentine." I said. "You just told me you love me. So tell me. What do you love about me?"

He froze.

I waited.

The rain stopped.

"What do you love about me?" I asked again. "That I'm pretty? That I'm good to you? That I'm obedient? That I never cause you trouble?"

Still nothing.

"You don't love me." I said. "You love easy. You love convenient. You love that no matter how you treat me, I'll never leave."

"I don't—"

"You do." I said. "You always have. You knew I wouldn't leave, so when you said we weren't going public, we didn't go public. When you said you were busy, I behaved. When you were with her, I waited. You knew I couldn't bear to lose you."

I took a deep breath.

"But now I can."

His voice changed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean—" I looked out the window. The moon had come out, pale and half-veiled by clouds. "I'm done waiting. This isn't anger. This isn't a tantrum. This isn't me waiting for you to come coax me back."

"You—"

"Valentine, I'm tired."

I hung up.

Then I powered off my phone and tossed it on the bed.

The apartment was quiet.

In the stillness after the rain, I could hear water dripping from the eaves below, slow and steady, one drop at a time.

I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the pile of his clothes on the floor, at the scarf I'd crumpled into a ball, at this room I'd lived in for three years, waiting for him for three.

Then I stood up and started packing.

I packed slowly.

Not because I couldn't let go. Because I didn't know where to start.

Everything in this apartment—his, mine—had gotten tangled together long ago.

The drawer full of charging cables. Which ones were his? Which ones were mine?

The lip balm on the nightstand. He always said it was girly, refused to touch it, but every winter when his lips cracked, he'd sneak it on when he thought I wasn't looking.

The heavy comforter on the top shelf of the closet. My mom had shipped it from back home. He said it was too heavy, that it felt like being crushed. But every time I got sick, he'd dig it out himself and tuck it around me.

I crouched there, a charging cable in my fist, suddenly unable to figure out which suitcase it belonged in.

The lock clicked.

I stiffened. Turned toward the bedroom door.

Footsteps. His. Wet ones, squelching with every step—his shoes must have been full of water.

Two seconds of silence in the living room.

Then the bedroom door swung open.

Valentine stood in the doorway, soaked through. His hair hung in dark, wet strands plastered to his forehead. His white dress shirt clung to his chest, so transparent I could see the outline of skin beneath. He was breathing hard, like he'd sprinted up the stairs.

His eyes found me. Then the charging cable in my hand. Then the open suitcase at my feet. Then the pile of clothes on the floor he'd stepped on coming in.

He didn't speak.

Neither did I.

The night after the rain was so quiet I could hear every breath he took—heavy, ragged, one after another.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

His voice was raw. Scraped down to nothing.

I didn't answer. I dropped the cable into the suitcase, stood up, walked to the closet, and kept pulling things out.

He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my wrist.

His hand was cold. Wet. His fingertips were shaking.