This isn’t just heartbreak.
It’s biological separation layered over emotional rupture.
Another buzz from my phone. A delivery notification. Food already paid for.
I didn’t order anything. But by the time I open the door again, the bag is waiting on the step. Warm. Familiar. My usual order.
Someone has also watered the plants in the front garden. The soil is dark and damp, the leaves upright and cared for.
They aren’t pushing. They aren’t showing up, unwelcome. They aren’t demanding forgiveness. They’re…tending.
My chest aches again, but differently now.
I sit on the floor with the box around me, each piece of clothing within reach, and press my palm flat against Sol’s shirt first. The grounding warmth seeps into me slowly. Then Koa’s flannel, rich and steady. Kai’s hoodie, bright and restless. Finn’s t-shirt, cool and balanced
It isn’t one that soothes me.
It’s the layering.
And that is what breaks me.
Tears come silently this time, not dramatic, not loud. Just quiet overflow.
I wasn’t just reacting. I was choosing. And my body chose with me. It chose for me.
But the betrayal still burns. The humiliation still stings.
And beneath it all is something far more frightening: I didn’t just start bonding to Sol. I started attaching toallof them.
And walking away didn’t sever it. It made it hurt.
I don’t consciously decide to move.
It happens in small, practical adjustments.
The house is too still. The sofa is too exposed. The space around me is too wide and empty. I tell myself I’m just trying to get comfortable. That I need something softer than the wooden chair beneath me.
I gather the clothes without thinking.
Sol’s shirt first – darker, heavier – I spread it along the inside corner of the sofa where the cushions meet, pressing it flat with my palms. The smoked oud and driftwood cling to the air, anchoring the space in something solid.
Koa’s flannel comes next, folded open and layered over it, the scent of warm sand and chocolate deepening the base beneath the sharper edges.
Kai’s hoodie is thicker. I bunch it slightly at the back, tucking it into the corner like a barrier, the tonka sweetness weaving through the smoke.
Finn’s t-shirt I keep closest.
I don’t question that either.
I drape it over my knees, then adjust it, pulling it higher, until the ocean rain and green tea wrap close to my chest.
The movements are automatic. Small. Methodical.
I shift the cushions tighter around me. I draw the throw blanket from the back of the sofa and layer it over the clothes, pressing the scents inward so they don’t disperse too quickly into the room.
Only when I pause do I realise what I’ve done.
The sofa corner has transformed into something enclosed. Warmer. Intentional.