That night, I dragged a steel barrel into the back of the estate. Photos. Gifts. The leather jackets he had made for us with our initials stitched inside. The love notes. Hundreds of them.
Then came the black journal.
His obsession in print.
He wrote down everything about me. What time I woke up. What tea I drank. The way I tied my hair when I was stressed. What kind of music calmed me down after nightmares. He knew every part of me.
He loved me like a project. Like a blueprint. Not a person. I tossed the journal in and lit a match.
I watched the fire grow.
It swallowed everything.
The letters. The fabric. The photos. His twisted version of love. I stood there in the dark, smoke curling into the night air, heat brushing against my face.
One tear fell. Just one.
It hit the ashes at my feet.
I didn’t cry again.
The fire died down fast. No trace left.
Just smoke. Just silence. I looked at the sky and whispered, “Goodbye, Hakeem.”
And this time, I meant it.
