Over the years, Ulysses gave me so much. Designer bags, limited-edition sneakers, luxury watches—each one expensive. I listed them all on a secondhand marketplace, slashing the prices by half.
“They’re useless to me now,” I told my reflection, trying to sound convincing. “It’s not like I’ll ever get gifts like these again anyway.”
Soon, a buyer started reaching out. They wanted to know why I was selling them so cheaply. I just said I needed the money. But honestly, I just wanted that stuff gone. It felt like if I got rid of the things, I could get rid of the feelings, too—the ones I shouldn’t have had in the first place.
Late that night, I heard a car engine outside.
When I looked out the window, there they were—Ulysses and Ginger coming home together. They were talking and laughing. It was the kind of warmth that could shatter you if you let it.
I shut the curtains, shoved on my headphones, and went back to practicing my farewell ballet dance. The music drowned out their voices—and muffled the sound of me crying.