I had already agreed to a political bond marriage with a neighboring pack. Leaving was inevitable. But until now, I’d held on, clinging to the faint hope that Isaac might give me a reason to stay—some word, some gesture that would convince me not to go.
Instead, he walked away and left me floundering.
That night, I retrieved a large cardboard box and began the excruciating task of removing every piece of our shared life.
I placed into it the matching slippers, the ones embroidered with a wolf howling at the moon—symbols of our supposed connection. I packed the coffee mugs that formed a perfect circle when placed together, and the special keychains that vibrated when brought close. Isaac had once claimed those trinkets were tokens of his enduring affection, little reminders that our bond held strong, even across distances.
At the time, they had made me feel cherished. Now, they only served as haunting remnants of empty promises.
Then came the photographs—snapshots capturing birthdays, holidays, and lazy weekends. Our smiles had looked genuine, our embraces natural. Anyone would’ve believed we were soulmates. I had once believed it myself.