I wandered back upstairs. My room was neat, made, empty, except for a single folded scarf on the edge of the bed. Hers, forgotten. Maybe, maybe not. I picked it up and sat down. It smelled faintly of her perfume, vanilla, and something floral. The scent of a memory already starting to fade. I came home early and left, changed.
Some stories don’t end with fireworks. Some end with silence and the quiet ache of knowing what almost was.
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