The lip balm on the nightstand. He always said it was girly, refused to touch it, but every winter when his lips cracked, he'd sneak it on when he thought I wasn't looking.
The heavy comforter on the top shelf of the closet. My mom had shipped it from back home. He said it was too heavy, that it felt like being crushed. But every time I got sick, he'd dig it out himself and tuck it around me.
I crouched there, a charging cable in my fist, suddenly unable to figure out which suitcase it belonged in.
The lock clicked.
I stiffened. Turned toward the bedroom door.
Footsteps. His. Wet ones, squelching with every step—his shoes must have been full of water.
Two seconds of silence in the living room.
Then the bedroom door swung open.
Valentine stood in the doorway, soaked through. His hair hung in dark, wet strands plastered to his forehead. His white dress shirt clung to his chest, so transparent I could see the outline of skin beneath. He was breathing hard, like he'd sprinted up the stairs.
His eyes found me. Then the charging cable in my hand. Then the open suitcase at my feet. Then the pile of clothes on the floor he'd stepped on coming in.
He didn't speak.
Neither did I.
The night after the rain was so quiet I could hear every breath he took—heavy, ragged, one after another.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
His voice was raw. Scraped down to nothing.
I didn't answer. I dropped the cable into the suitcase, stood up, walked to the closet, and kept pulling things out.
He crossed the room in two strides and grabbed my wrist.
His hand was cold. Wet. His fingertips were shaking.
"I asked you what you're doing."
I looked down at his hand.
That hand. I'd held it a thousand times. Crossing the street. Tucked into his coat pocket in winter. Draped over my waist while we slept.
I knew every line on that palm, every degree of its warmth, the shape of every knuckle.
But now, with his fingers clamped around my wrist, it felt like a stranger's hand.
"Let go," I said.
He didn't. He squeezed tighter.
"Look at me."
I didn't move.
"I said look at me."
I raised my head.
His eyes were red. Whether from the rain or something else, I couldn't tell. Stubble shadowed his jaw, patches he hadn't finished shaving that morning. His lips were cracked, a thin film of dry skin peeling along the edges.