"But you don't know what my favorite food is," I said. "You don't know when I get off work. You don't know that I'm afraid of the dark, afraid of thunder, afraid of being alone. You don't know that every time I sat in this apartment waiting for you, waiting past midnight, waiting until I fell asleep, all I'd get was a text saying you weren't coming home."
"I—"
"You don't even know what today is." I said. "November seventeenth. Ten years since we got together. I waited a whole year for this day. I thought you'd remember. I thought you'd surprise me—even just a word, even just a text."
He went quiet.
"Instead, what I got was her sitting on your lap." I let out a short laugh. "Great surprise. Really outdid yourself."
"Don't do this—"
"Valentine." I said. "You just told me you love me. So tell me. What do you love about me?"
He froze.
I waited.
The rain stopped.
"What do you love about me?" I asked again. "That I'm pretty? That I'm good to you? That I'm obedient? That I never cause you trouble?"
Still nothing.
"You don't love me." I said. "You love easy. You love convenient. You love that no matter how you treat me, I'll never leave."
"I don't—"
"You do." I said. "You always have. You knew I wouldn't leave, so when you said we weren't going public, we didn't go public. When you said you were busy, I behaved. When you were with her, I waited. You knew I couldn't bear to lose you."
I took a deep breath.
"But now I can."
His voice changed. "What do you mean?"
"I mean—" I looked out the window. The moon had come out, pale and half-veiled by clouds. "I'm done waiting. This isn't anger. This isn't a tantrum. This isn't me waiting for you to come coax me back."
"You—"
"Valentine, I'm tired."
I hung up.
Then I powered off my phone and tossed it on the bed.
The apartment was quiet.
In the stillness after the rain, I could hear water dripping from the eaves below, slow and steady, one drop at a time.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the pile of his clothes on the floor, at the scarf I'd crumpled into a ball, at this room I'd lived in for three years, waiting for him for three.
Then I stood up and started packing.
I packed slowly.
Not because I couldn't let go. Because I didn't know where to start.
Everything in this apartment—his, mine—had gotten tangled together long ago.
The drawer full of charging cables. Which ones were his? Which ones were mine?