The next morning, I opened my sore, tired eyes to find my pillow soaked. I had no idea when Francine left, but the room now only carried the lingering scent of her perfume. It was faint, but it cut at my heart like a dull knife, slowly and relentlessly.
Still, I got up, moving like a robot, numb to everything around me.
In the closet, the couple's jackets, which they had bought in Hokkaido the previous year, still hung side by side. I took mine down and stuffed it into my suitcase.
The rest—Francine's things, the memories—stayed untouched.
I couldn't bear to look at them again.
Then, my phone vibrated, pulling me out of my thoughts.
It was a message from my father:
[The tickets and accommodations are all arranged. The flight is next Wednesday.]
[Carson, son, no matter what happens, your family will always be your support.]
I stared at the screen, my eyes welling up once more.
Once, I thought Francine was my everything.
Now, I realized some warmth had never truly left me.
The doorbell rang suddenly, and for a moment, I thought it was Francine, coming back.
But when I opened the door, I found Evan standing there.
Still impeccably dressed in a suit, with that smug, irritating smile.