The morning sunlight streamed into Adaora's apartment, but it didn't feel warm. It felt like an interrogation light, exposing everything she wanted to hide.
Her room was a battlefield—half-emptied drawers, clothes scattered across the floor, the box of photographs sitting like a wound in the corner. For hours she had sat on the bed, staring at them, knowing she had to pack more but unable to move.
It wasn't just about putting things in boxes. It was about admitting he was gone.
She finally forced herself up, each step across the room heavy, like wading through mud. Her hand trembled as she reached for the first item—his toothbrush. It was such a small thing, blue plastic, still leaning against hers in the holder. She stared at it for too long before dropping it into the trash. The sound of it hitting the bin was louder than it should have been, like a door slamming.
Next was the mug. His mug. The one with the crooked handle that he claimed gave it "character." She lifted it slowly, running her thumb along the rim. She could almost hear his laugh as he teased her for being too sleepy in the mornings. She pressed the mug against her chest, and before she knew it, she was crying again—loud, messy sobs that echoed through the room.
It wasn't just a mug. It was mornings. It was routine. It was home.
Adaora put it into the box, her chest tightening as if she was packing away her own lungs.
One by one, the objects piled up: the t-shirt he left after movie nights, the pen he always stole from her desk, the keychain they bought at the beach. Each one carried a memory, and each memory cut her open all over again.
Halfway through, she collapsed onto the floor, her hands clutching a photo she hadn't seen in years—the two of them at her graduation, his arm around her shoulders, his smile so bright, so sure. She traced his face with her finger, whispering through tears, "Why wasn't I enough?"
The question sat in the air like smoke. She had asked herself this a thousand times since last night. And though a part of her knew his leaving wasn't about her worth, the ache of rejection screamed otherwise.
Her phone buzzed again. Another message from Kemi.
"Eat something. Please. Even if it's just bread."
Adaora let out a weak laugh through her tears. Trust Kemi to mother her even in heartbreak. She didn't reply this time, but the thought of food made her stomach twist. How could she eat when grief was sitting so heavy inside her?
She forced herself back up. She wasn't done. If she stopped now, she might never finish.
Her eyes fell on the small notebook on the nightstand. His handwriting was on the first page. He had written a note to her two years ago: "To my Ada, the girl who makes everything brighter. Forever yours, T."
The words blurred as fresh tears spilled. Forever yours. Forever had lasted five years.
Adaora pressed the notebook to her chest for a long moment, then gently placed it in the box. Not the trash. She couldn't throw this one away. Some things were too heavy to destroy, even if they hurt to keep.
By late afternoon, the boxes were filled. The room looked stripped bare, like a body without a soul. Shadows stretched across the floor as the sun dipped lower, and Adaora sat among the packed memories, hugging her knees.
The silence was deafening, but this time, it felt a little different. Not just grief. Something else. Something like… release.
For the first time since last night, she allowed herself to imagine what tomorrow might look like. Not with him. Just with herself. The thought was terrifying, but also—faintly—liberating.
Her phone buzzed once more. A voice note from Kemi this time:
> "Ada, I know it feels like your whole life is over, but it isn't. You're still here. You're breathing. You're strong, even if you don't feel like it right now. One day, you'll look back and see that this was the beginning, not the end. I promise."
Adaora listened twice, tears streaming, before whispering into the dim room, "The beginning."
She didn't fully believe it yet. But as she sat surrounded by boxes of shadows, a tiny part of her wanted to.
And maybe, just maybe, that was enough for today.