Back then, I was so certain this was where I would grow old, side by side with him. That belief now felt absurd—like the cruelest form of self-deception.
Every inch of the house was steeped in memories: laughter echoing in the halls, whispered conversations late at night, mundane moments that once seemed magical. Yet now, each memory felt like a wound reopening, sharp and relentless.
The truth that burned in my chest was undeniable—this place had never truly been mine. Isaac had created it for someone else, sculpted it with the image of a woman I had tried so hard to become. I had twisted myself to fit that vision, and still, it hadn’t been enough. I had always been a poor substitute.
Living here any longer would only inflict more pain.
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.
Now, those smiles mocked me. The happiness in those frames felt staged, hollow. I couldn’t stand to look at them anymore. They were monuments to my naivety.
In truth, Isaac hadn’t come home in more than two weeks.