By the time the sun rose, the place barely looked like mine. It was stripped of everything that had made it feel warm and personal. The colorful pillows were gone, the pictures packed away, the trinkets boxed up. The rooms were plain and cold, just like his absence.
Asher didn’t come home that night. Or the next. Days blurred into weeks, and the only sounds that broke the silence were my pen scratching across paper as I worked on my designs. At first, I missed his presence, but over time, I started to feel something else: relief.
I buried myself in my work, sketching late into the night. My wolf stirred occasionally, restless and aching, but even she knew it was time to move on.
One evening, when the weight of everything felt unbearable, I decided to reach out one last time. He deserved that—a chance for closure. I dialed his number, and it rang several times before going straight to voicemail. Moments later, a message buzzed in:
[If you’re god-damn ready to apologize to Celeste, then maybe we can talk. Otherwise, don’t bother.]
I stared at the screen, his words slamming into me like a rogue’s attack. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. That was it, then.