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alive-gh0st · 3 days ago

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❝Nostos❞

⚜️Odysseus!Mark Grayson x Penelope!Reader⚜️

𓊈Part II — ”Epistrefó”𓊉

࣪ ˖ ࣪ ⊹˖ ࣪ ��﹏﹏𓂃 ོ☼𓂃𓊝﹏﹏𓂃𓂁﹏﹏𓂃 ࣪ ˖⊹ ࣪ ˖ ࣪

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

📜 summary: he left. not with cruelty. not with goodbye. mark just vanished—and you stayed. it’s hard to stay normal. you try to move on. you really do. but mark’s jacket still waits on the chair. his name is still pinned in your phone. the coffee still brews for two. and the letters? they pile up. this isn’t about hope. it’s about absence. you’re not hoping. just staying, even when no one asks you to. (aka: grief without a grave. love without closure. devotion without return.)

📜 contains: sfw. slow burn. heartbreak. memory as a character. one-sided presence. two-sided ache. grief without death. love in limbo. emotionally repressed!reader. odysseus-coded!mark. penelope-coded!reader. messy handwriting vs neat black pen. polaroid keepsakes. lots of flashbacks. debbie grayson being a mother figure to reader. soft domesticity haunted by absence. boxes of unsent letters. a jacket no one can move. a girl who stays. a boy who doesn’t come back (yet).

📜 warning: emotional themes. ambiguous grief. depressive routine. unresolved love. emotional repression. survivor’s guilt. mentions of blood/injury (light). isolation. loneliness. ambiguous trauma. post-battle exhaustion. implied memory loss. existential ache. quiet breakdowns. longing dressed as daily routine. no happy ending (in this part). read gently.

📜 wc: 5983

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌a/n: thank you for waiting so patiently for this story. i had a very specific ache in mind when writing this, and it wouldn’t leave until it was posted. “Nostos” is the first half of a two-part heartbreak duology (the second part, Epistrefó, is in the works). remember that sometimes, love doesn’t vanish—it just lingers in doorways and folds itself into jackets we simply can’t put away.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

You don’t check your phone anymore. Not really.

Not for him.

You check the battery. The time. The weather. The signal bars in the top corner that say you’re still here, and he’s still not. But you don’t expect anything.

You don’t hope.

Not anymore.

Not since Mark disappeared one night and never came back. Not since his contact slipped further down your recent list with each passing day, replaced by bills, deliveries, and people who went back to normal too quickly.

Still, you charge it every night. Still, you leave the phone ringer on.

Maybe that’s not hope. Maybe it’s just routine. The kind that sneaks in and settles behind your ribs when life starts to rot slowly.

The kind that whispers—if I just do this one more time, maybe…

You wake before your alarm.

The morning light creeps in like a slow apology, filtering half-heartedly through the curtains. Your hand finds the phone instinctively, thumb brushing the screen without really looking.

No missed calls. No new messages. One software update.

You ignore it all.

The house is quiet. But it’s not peace. It’s absence.

The faucet drips every six seconds. The kettle clicks on. You don’t remember pressing it. The hum of heating water sounds too loud in the silence you’ve been pretending doesn’t suffocate you.

You sit at the table with your legs folded underneath you, the mug pressed between both palms. The steam curls upward, ghostlike—like something leaving.

No movement, no noise, no presence.

You scroll anyway.

His name is still pinned.

“Mark 💫”

You don’t remember what the emoji was supposed to mean.

He added it himself like it was hilarious. Said it made him look mysterious. Said he was “a riddle in human form” and you had laughed so hard you snorted.

Mark grinned like he liked the sound of your laughter too much.

That was before.

Now the last message from him still sits there like a paperweight you never moved.

be there soon

You didn’t respond.

You never got the chance.

And you remember—

It was late.

You were at your front door, holding it open with your socked foot, arm crossed over your chest, just watching him from the hallway.

His jacket was unzipped, hoodie strings uneven, hair still wet from the shower he’d apparently taken somewhere else.

Mark didn’t say where. You didn’t ask.

You always meant to ask more questions. You never did.

“I’ll be quick,” he’d told you.

You frowned. “Isn’t that what you said last time?”

He gave you that look.

The one that said ’don’t ruin this’. The one he always pulled when he was five seconds away from pulling you into a hug and ten seconds from disappearing entirely.

He kissed the side of your head instead.

“You’ll see me soon.”

A look. A promise. Nothing more.

You’d watched him walk off with his hands shoved in his pockets, like he didn’t know what to do with them when they weren’t on you.

And then Mark never came back.

Back in the present, you unlock your phone again. Not for anything. Just for motion.

The drafts are still there.

You don’t even know how many you’ve written now. Some are seconds long. Some are full paragraphs. All unsent. All useless.

U alive or what lol

Remind me again why ur hot when ur annoying

It’s raining and you’re missing it. Again

Mark where are you

I should’ve told you not to go

Just say you miss me already. Coward

You promised, you promised, you promised

Just say something… anything

I hate you for this.

You tap a new one open. Blank screen. Blinking cursor. And you type.

Hey. You probably won’t see this. That’s fine. But I saw someone yesterday who almost looked like you. He smiled. You don’t really smile like that, but I wanted it to be you so bad I didn’t care. Just thought I’d tell you that. That I thought it was you.

That I wished it was.

You stare at it for a long time.

Then you lock the screen. Set it facedown. You don’t delete it. You don’t send it. You don’t do anything, really.

The ringer stays on.

Because maybe tomorrow, the silence will break. Maybe tomorrow, he won’t still be gone.

Or maybe because that’s what you do when you love someone.

You wait.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You didn’t mean to hold it.

Today was supposed to be about cleaning. Supposed to be about moving things around—there were sheets to wash, shoes to line up, that one drawer that collects things nobody owns.

You were supposed to finally put away the pieces of him that stayed even when he didn’t.

But the chair stopped you.

The jacket was still there. Still slung across the back like he just left it yesterday.

Like Mark might still come back for it.

It hangs exactly where he used to sit, where he’d tip backward on two legs and pretend he wasn’t breaking the chair every time. You used to scold him for that.

Not seriously. Not like you meant it.

Now, there’s no one left to play pretend-annoyed with.

Your hand brushes the sleeve as you pass. And then you pause. Fingers curling into worn fabric that still holds his shape.

You lift it gently. Not all the way. Just enough to hold it against your chest.

It smells like dust now.

But beneath that—beneath time, and distance, and everything he didn’t say—there’s still a trace of him.

That warm scent of something musky and clean and entirely Mark.

Something you only noticed the first time he hugged you and it stuck to your hoodie for days. Something that crept into your sheets and your sweaters and your bloodstream without permission.

You breathe it in.

Then again. Slower.

It’s not grief, exactly.

Not yet.

It’s something duller. Something quieter.

You keep the jacket in your arms as you move to the kitchen. You don’t even realize you’re actually wearing it until you catch your reflection in the microwave—shoulders swallowed by dark fabric, sleeves dragging.

It’s too big. Always was.

He used to joke about that, too.

“That’s the point,” he’d said once, tugging it over your shoulders when you were shivering outside. “If it fits, it’s not boyfriend-coded.”

You’d rolled your eyes. “You’re not my boyfriend.”

He’d shrugged, lips tugging into a crooked smile. “Yet.”

You hadn’t answered. But you hadn’t taken it off either.

It was cold that night.

Not freezing, just sharp in the kind of way that nipped at your fingertips and made you hug yourself tighter.

You’d both been walking back from something—food, maybe. You don’t remember the details.

Just that your arms were bare and your voice was quieter than usual.

Mark had slowed beside you, watching the way you rubbed your arms.

He didn’t say anything yet. Just unzipped his jacket and handed it over like it was instinct.

You hadn’t asked. He hadn’t offered.

He just—did it.

And you took it.

He didn’t make a joke after that. Didn’t flirt. Just kept walking beside you like it was the most normal thing in the world.

But it changed everything.

Not right then. Not obviously. But something shifted.

You remember the way your stomach twisted and your heartbeat picked up. You remember thinking—

Oh.

He didn’t touch you again that night. Not once. But you felt him everywhere.

You slide the jacket off and drape it over the back of the same chair again.

Smoothing the collar down. Adjusting the shoulders like he might sit there again.

Like maybe if you leave it just right, he’ll feel it.

You keep it where you’d reach for him if he were here.

Right there. In arm’s length.

Because if you moved it—if you packed it away in a box or folded it into the back of your closet—it would mean he’s not coming back.

And you’re not ready for that.

You stir the tea. One cup. Steam rising.

Mark’s chair stays empty.

But the jacket waits.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It just… happens.

You measure out the coffee, same as always.

Scoop. Scoop. Pour. Wait.

The rhythm is muscle memory now—something buried into the mornings like breath, like heartbeat, like him.

Then you finally catch yourself.

Two mugs.

One for you.

One for Mark.

It’s like the whole room freezes.

You’d promised yourself you stopped doing this. That you finally broke the habit. You even shoved his mug to the back of the cabinet.

You swore you were done waiting.

But it’s still there.

Still chipped on the side where he knocked it against the sink one morning and said it gave the mug “character.”

It’s still black with those stupid yellow stars.

Still his.

You should’ve noticed when your hands reached for it before your head did.

Still him.

You pour the coffee anyway. Two mugs.

No sugar in either.

Just the way he drank it—and the way you learned to drink it too.

And you leave the other warm, just in case.

You sit at the table.

Mark’s cup across from you.

Untouched.

And you remember—

It was a mess of a morning.

You were late. He was later. The kitchen was a disaster, and Mark was shirtless for absolutely no reason. You were trying to make toast while he danced barefoot on the tile to a song you couldn’t stand.

You’d told him to stop being annoying.

He’d winked. Stole the toast off your plate.

You’d shrieked—actually shrieked—and chased him around the counter, barefoot and giggling so hard you nearly slipped on the corner rug.

Mark dodged you once. Twice. Then let you catch him.

Hands on your waist, your breath in his mouth, laughter tangled between your fingers as they clutched the front of his hoodie like it meant something.

It didn’t mean anything—yet somehow meant everything.

He kissed you on the cheek. And you kissed him back.

Then he whispered, “Keep the mug warm for me.”

And of course, you do.

Every morning.

You lift your own cup. Blow on it. Sip. It burns your tongue.

The second mug cools across the table.

Quiet. Still. Full.

You rinse it out before you leave the kitchen.

You always do.

Not because it’s dirty. Not because it was used. Just because that’s what you do.

When you’re still hoping.

Even if you won’t say it out loud.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

Stay productive.

That’s what people say, right? Structure helps. Routine is good. Keep busy.

Keep moving. Keep going. Keep making plans. Keep pretending you’re fine.

Like motion can patch what memory keeps splitting open.

So you write lists now.

Groceries. Cleaning. Meal plans. Things you need. Things you might need. Things to make it look like you’re okay.

Tiny tasks that make up a life—yours now missing half of what made it feel like one.

Today’s list starts the same way as always. Blank paper. Black pen. You write the date at the top like it matters.

Like it’s going to mean anything in a week.

Monday:

• Bread

• Tea

• Paper towels

• …

You pause after the third item. Pen hovers. Eyes drift toward the drawer to your left.

You shouldn’t open it. You do anyway.

You rifle through receipts and extra takeout menus, an old flashlight that barely works. And then you find it.

Folded. Yellowed at the edges. Paper soft from time and… something else.

You unfold it slowly. You already know what it is. You know how it ends.

Mark’s handwriting stares back at you—lopsided and confident, faded blue color with that kind of controlled madness that always looked better on him than it had any right to.

Like even his grocery lists didn’t know how to sit still.

• eggs

• bananas

• that almond milk you swear tastes different but doesn’t

• granola (get the one you like, I don’t care)

• more tea, we’re out again

• the cookies you pretend you don’t eat at 1am

• trash bags

• shampoo (the purple one)

• soap

• strawwber strawberry toothpaste

• something sweet (if you’re still mad at me)

Underneath that, at a slight diagonal across the corner—

’get flowers if she still looks tired.’

Drawn beside a doodle of what might be a dog—big eyes, lopsided ears, tongue out—and just next to it those three words…

’Love You…♡’

You laugh. Or maybe choke. The sound comes out somewhere in between.

You remember this list.

You’d been teasing him for writing everything on paper instead of using his phone. He’d argued phones were ”soulless,” and that “real men use Post-its.”

You’d rolled your eyes. Mark kissed your temple.

Said lists were how he kept you with him when you weren’t there.

You press your thumb into the little heart he’d drawn beside your name. The blue ink’s slightly smeared—maybe it got wet once.

Or maybe you just touched it too many times.

It’s stupid. It’s so stupid, the way it still folds exactly the same.

The way the creases fall into place like they know how to find their way back.

Like him.

You think about throwing it away.

You even fold it once.

Then unfold it again.

You stare at it until your eyes blur—until you stop seeing the letters and only see the way he handed it to you, smug and soft and so full of quiet affection you didn’t know what to do with it.

You don’t throw it out.

You just slide it back where it came from. Like it belongs in the drawer. Like it still has a purpose.

The new list started on a different page.

And you don’t write your name on it.

You don’t add cookies or shampoo or flowers. You just… let his list stay.

Right where it was. Blue ink intact. Doodle untouched.

Like maybe it’s not a list at all—maybe it’s a letter. A timestamp. A small, stupid way to say Mark was here.

And maybe that’s enough.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It starts like they all always do.

Somewhere between a joke and a lie. Between habit and hope.

You sharpen the black pen you always use—neat, intentional, boring—like if your handwriting is steady enough, your heart will be too.

The paper is folded once, creased twice, tucked behind the tray of teas and old receipts in the kitchen drawer.

There’s more where that came from.

This isn’t the first.

It won’t be the last.

You press the pen to the page, and let your hand lead.

﹏﹏

Hey, idiot,

I saw a guy today with the same shitty walk you have. Thought it was you.

Wasn’t. Obviously. He was taller.

And had better posture. So now I’m mad.

Not at him.

At you.

﹏﹏

You exhale.

It’s stupid—you know it is. But it doesn’t stop your fingers.

Doesn’t stop the ache curling behind your ribs like something left too long in the cold.

﹏﹏

I made coffee.

You’d say it was too sweet. You’d drink it anyway. And lie.

Like you always did.

Like I let you.

﹏﹏

You swallow hard. Blink twice. Don’t stop writing.

﹏﹏

I keep the jacket on your chair.

The mug near the kettle.

You’re not here. But yet you’re everywhere.

﹏﹏

The pen presses harder now. The strokes sharper. Angrier.

﹏﹏

You said I’d see you soon.

You never said it’d be the last time.

I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I don’t even know if this is goodbye.

I don’t know anything.

Except that it still smells like you when I open the closet.

And I haven’t changed the sheets. And I keep forgetting how your voice sounds when you laugh. But I remember how it sounded when you said my name.

I hate that.

I hate you for that.

﹏﹏

The paper blurs.

You don’t notice the first tear until it hits the corner of the page. A soft smear—like watercolor. Like proof.

You don’t wipe it away.

More come.

Slow. Heavy. Quiet.

Your body doesn’t sob. Doesn’t heave.

You just… leak. Like your heart sprung a hole somewhere too deep to find.

And still, your hand moves.

﹏﹏

I remember the first time you touched me like you meant it.

Not the kiss. Not the teasing.

I mean your hand on my back. Just resting there. Just… there. No pressure. No agenda.

I think that’s when I knew.

You brushed my hair off my forehead the night you stayed late. We weren’t even together. You didn’t ask. You just did it.

And I wanted to cry, even then.

﹏﹏

You’re shaking now. Just a little. Just enough for the words to tilt downward, slope off-kilter—like they’re falling away from you.

Like he did.

﹏﹏

You used to hum when you thought I was asleep. Through the bathroom door. While brushing your teeth.

I never told you I heard it. I just listened. It made me feel safe.

You made me feel safe.

﹏﹏

You pause.

And for a second, your mind goes completely blank.

You sit in it. The silence. The space where Mark used to be.

The world moves on. The faucet drips. The light buzzes. Somewhere outside, a car starts.

You look down at the page.

﹏﹏

I’m scared you’re gone.

But I’m more scared I’ll learn how to live with it.

﹏﹏

That’s the last thing you wrote.

No signature. No goodbye.

Just a confession.

You fold it slow. With care.

Then you rise. Move across the apartment like sleepwalking. Like prayer.

You kneel by the closet. Reach behind the stack of scarves and that one box of photos you haven’t opened since fall.

There’s a shoebox there. Faded cardboard. Tied with a string. You lift the lid.

Letters.

Dozens of them. Maybe more.

Some are bent. Some warped at the corners. Some tear-stained.

All unopened. All unsent.

You place the new one on top. Neatly. Lovingly. Like it belongs.

Then you close the lid. Tug the string taut again. And push the box gently back into the dark.

You don’t say anything. But in your head, you whisper—

If you come back… I’ll give you all of them.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It was raining.

Not the cinematic kind. Just grey, steady, apathetic. Like even the sky had given up.

You hadn’t spoken to anyone in two days. Hadn’t opened the blinds.

It was a Tuesday. Or maybe a Wednesday. You didn’t care anymore.

There was a knock at the door. Three short taps.

You knew it was her before you even looked through the peephole. There was a pause. Then the sound of her key turning in the lock.

Debbie didn’t wait. She never did.

She stepped inside with the same quiet confidence she always had—like someone used to walking through grief.

Like she already knew the shape of it.

You stood barefoot in the doorway. Hoodie too big. Eyes too tired.

“I brought soup,” she said simply.

Her voice was gentler than the rain.

You didn’t reply. Just nodded.

Let her set the bag on the counter and pretend the room wasn’t full of things neither of you could say out loud.

“Tea, too,” she added. “The one you like. With the weird flowers in it.”

You didn’t remember ever telling her that.

Maybe Mark did.

You didn’t ask.

The kettle clicked on. The air started to fill with steam and silence. You sat at the table while she moved around the kitchen with quiet ease—like it was still hers too.

Debbie moved like she knew where everything was. Because she did.

You sat at the table, watching her stir the broth like it was a spell.

She didn’t ask how you were. Didn’t mention him. Just placed the bowl in front of you and cupped your shoulder in one hand, soft but steady.

“Eat,” she said. “You don’t have to talk.”

So you didn’t.

The soup scalded your mouth, and maybe that was the point. You blinked too hard once. Looked down instead of up.

Debbie sat across from you. Elbows on the table. Tea in hand.

She looked tired too. But not the same kind of tired.

The kind that comes from knowing too much and saying too little.

She let the silence stretch. Let it fill every corner of the kitchen without trying to sweep it away. She sipped her tea, slow and steady, like the world wasn’t breaking apart right in front of her.

At one point, she opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it again.

You looked up.

Her eyes were fixed on the jacket. Still on the chair. Still untouched.

Still his.

Her jaw tightened. Just a little.

“You keeping it there on purpose?” she asked, like it didn’t mean anything. Like it wasn’t the first time either of you had acknowledged it.

You didn’t answer. You didn’t have to.

Debbie nodded once. Almost like she understood. Like she was doing the same thing in a different house.

“He used to leave his socks everywhere,” she said quietly. “I found one under the couch last week.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

Eventually Debbie started cleaning while you ate.

Folded the dish towel. Organized that one drawer you kept forgetting about. Hummed a song you didn’t recognize under her breath.

At some point, she slid the other tea towards you.

You blinked. “I don’t—”

“I know,” she said. “But you need it today.”

You obeyed.

It was awful. It tasted too sweet. Too floral. Like comfort where it didn’t belong. But you drank it anyway.

Because Debbie was right.

When she left, she kissed the top of your head and pressed a folded napkin into your hand.

“I’m not him,” she said, quiet and steady, “but I’m not going anywhere.”

You didn’t open the napkin until the door clicked shut behind her. Inside, in her neat cursive, it just said—

Eat. Sleep. Let yourself be loved.

Below it, smaller—

Call me if you forget that.

You blinked hard again. This time, it wasn’t because of the soup.

You tucked it in the drawer. Right under the first letter you ever wrote to him.

And you never threw it away.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

It’s not hard to lie.

You thought it would be.

You thought the shape of his name in your chest would make it catch somewhere between your teeth, twist your mouth into something unreadable—but no.

When people ask if you’re okay, your voice doesn’t crack. Your face doesn’t fall. You just smile.

Tight. Bright. Fine.

”I’m fine.”

It rolls off your tongue like water. Like breath. Like maybe, if you say it enough, it’ll start being true.

You say it at the coffee shop. At the pharmacy. To the neighbor with the loud dog and the judgmental eyes.

And you say it tonight, too—when you’re out.

You weren’t planning to go.

You don’t remember saying yes. Don’t remember texting back. But somehow, you’re here anyway.

Same bar. Same table. Same people.

Same everything—except the part that matters.

The seat next to you is empty. No one takes it. They don’t even try.

It used to be Mark’s.

Always.

He’d sprawl too far, take up too much space, nudge your knee under the table like it was a secret only you two knew.

He’d make jokes too loud, smile too wide, say your name in that ridiculous sing-song tone that meant he wanted something.

You look around.

Someone laughs—you think it’s William. A real sound. Loud and open and bright.

You wonder how he can do that so easily without his best-friend but you mimic it.

And it almost feels real.

Almost.

They’re his friends.

But they became yours too, at some point.

Somewhere between group dinners and stupid game nights and Mark dragging you along even when you said you were tired.

Now they invite you without him. Pretend it’s the same.

Maybe they also don’t know what else to do.

You nod at the right times. Ask the right questions. Sip the drink Amber handed you earlier and pretend it doesn’t taste like guilt.

Eve tells a story you’ve heard before. You laugh.

It feels like theft.

On your way home, every man you pass looks a little like him.

A curl of dark hair. A familiar height. A walk that’s too casual to be a stranger’s.

And every time, your heart stutters.

Then sinks.

You’re not even surprised anymore. You barely blink. It’s like your brain keeps pressing the bruise just to make sure it still hurts.

It does.

There’s a couple ahead of you on the sidewalk. The guy lifts his girlfriend’s hand and spins her. She laughs, off-balance, clutches his jacket.

Mark did that once.

You’d told him to stop being cheesy. He said you needed more magic in your life. That he could be that for you. That he wanted to be.

You’d called him stupid.

Mark had grinned and spun you anyway.

You’d laughed.

And believed him.

It’s late when you get back.

The apartment smells like lemon cleaner and leftover memory.

You peel off your jacket, toss your keys in the bowl by the door. Kick your shoes off. Shrug.

The chair still holds the jacket.

The mug is still clean.

The box of letters stays untouched in the closet, tucked beneath everything else. Like muscle memory. Like something sacred.

You flick on the lamp. Just one. The soft one by the couch. It doesn’t light the whole room—just enough to see by. Just enough to remember.

You sit.

No sound. No movement. No laughter through the wall or door slamming shut or Mark calling, “I’m back!” with a grin in his voice like he never left.

The couch is too quiet.

Your hands too still.

You don’t cry.

You’re not even sad, not really. Not tonight.

Just… empty.

You wonder what it means to miss someone without being abandoned.

Because he didn’t leave you.

He just… left.

And you stayed.

That’s what you’re good at.

Staying.

Even when everything else doesn’t.

══⊱≼⚜️≽⊰══

You don’t know how long it’s been.

You could count the days. You could scroll through the calendar, trace your finger back through mornings and meals and missed alarms—but you won’t.

You already know time doesn’t move right anymore.

Not forward. Not backward. Just… around.

Looping like bad weather. Like a door that won’t shut all the way.

You clean the kitchen for the third time in two days. It doesn’t need it. The counter gleams. The stovetop is spotless. You scrub anyway.

The rag smells like citrus and ache.

The music you put on in the background stops three songs in. You don’t notice until the apartment goes still again—until the silence feels too loud, too final.

Like a punchline that never came.

You breathe. Stretch.

Decide today is drawer day.

You start with the junk one. Pens, batteries, some keys that don’t fit anything anymore. You find a single glove. Three twist-ties. A coupon that expired last year. Then, tucked in the very back—

A pen. Blue.

You freeze.

Not yours.

You only use black.

It’s scratched along the clip like he chewed on it. There’s a tiny smear of ink dried at the tip. The weight of it in your hand is so stupidly familiar your chest hurts.

You test it against your palm.

It still works.

You set it down like it’s fragile. Like it might vanish if you breathe wrong.

And for a second, you just… stand there. Hands on the counter. Eyes on the pen.

It’s nothing. It’s just a pen.

But it’s his.

Still here.

Like you.

You think about burning them.

The letters. The box. Everything unsaid.

You even set them out once.

One night when the air felt too heavy and your body buzzed with something desperate—something like grief or anger or just plain madness.

You pulled the box from the closet. Untied the string. Stacked the envelopes like firewood. You think there are thirty-seven now. Maybe more. You don’t count anymore.

And then you stared.

You imagined the flame. Imagined the way the ink would curl and vanish. How the words would finally mean something if they disappeared.

But you couldn’t do it.

Not because you believed he’d come back. Not because you were hoping.

But because letting go would feel too final.

Too loud. Too much.

So you put them away again. Tucked them back in the dark. You didn’t even read them.

Just… stayed.

The jacket’s been on the chair too long.

You know it. The collar’s starting to droop. The sleeves are dusted in sunlight and stale air.

So you fold it.

Not like packing it away. Not like forgetting. Just gentle. Careful. A quiet kind of reverence.

You press out the creases with your palms. Smooth the fabric like it’s skin. Like it’ll wrinkle if you look at it too hard.

Then you hang it.

Not deep in the closet. Not hidden. Just inside the door. Where you could still reach for it, if you needed to.

You do that a lot.

Not need. Not want.

Just… reach.

The call wasn’t planned. It’s not even brave. Just—impulse. A moment where your thumb hovers over that name and you press down before you can talk yourself out of it.

Debbie Grayson.

It rings once. Twice. Then her voice.

“Hey, sweetheart.”

You freeze.

You didn’t know how much you missed being called that. How much you missed her warm voice.

The conversation is short. Gentle. Careful in all the places that still hurt. You talk about the weather. Groceries. Some show she’s watching. You tell her your heater’s been acting up. Debbie says she’ll send someone.

The call went quiet for a few seconds. You could hear a bird outside her window, maybe. The soft clink of glass.

“How are you… really?” she asked gently.

You said, “Fine.”

Too quick. Too flat.

She didn’t challenge it.

“Me too,” she said. Then a pause. “Liar.”

You laughed once. Quiet. Bitter.

“Still keeping his jacket out?” she asked.

You nodded before realizing she couldn’t see you. Then whispered, “Yeah.”

Debbie hummed. “Me too. It’s his hoodie, though. The one with the dumb band on it.”

You smile. “He loved that one.”

“He stank in that one,” she corrected, and you laughed again—this time without choking on it. “Wouldn’t let me wash it for two weeks.”

“He said that ruins the ‘vibe,’” you added.

“I swear, he made up half of his vocabulary.”

You fall into silence again. But this time, it doesn’t feel crushing.

Just familiar.

She sighs softly. Then—

“If he could’ve called… he would have.”

You know what she means. You also know it doesn’t help.

But you’re glad she said it anyway.

“I know,” you whisper.

But before you hang up, her voice goes soft.

“Call me anytime if you need anything, okay?”

„Okay.”

“Love you.”

“Love you, too.”

Debbie hangs up. And you’re left alone again. But not quite the same.

You say you would call.

You both know you won’t.

After the call, your hands are shaking.

You go to the bathroom. Not because you need to. Just… because it’s something to do.

The faucet hisses. The water runs warm.

You scrub your hands harder than you need to. Focus on the spaces between your fingers. The creases in your palm.

Like if you scrub hard enough, you’ll find something still yours underneath it all.

When it happens, it doesn’t feel like a breakdown.

It’s not messy. It’s not loud. You don’t drop anything. You don’t scream.

You’re just staring at the sink. At your own reflection in the mirror. You don’t recognize the girl looking back.

She’s too still. Too tired.

Too not you.

And suddenly, the weight of your own body feels too much to carry.

Your knees fold before your heart does.

You sit on the floor, palms flat to the tile, breath shallow. The water still running behind you.

Your chest stays quiet—your eyes don’t.

It’s not the ugly kind. No heaving, no sobbing, no gasping for air like you thought heartbreak was supposed to look like.

It’s just tears.

Fast. Full. Final.

You don’t stop them. You don’t wipe them away. You let them fall. Don’t curse them. Don’t name it healing.

Because it doesn’t feel like healing.

It just feels like staying.

Still here.

Still.

You crawl to the couch eventually. Turn off the faucet. Leave the light on.

The pen’s still on the counter. The jacket’s still by the door. The box stays closed in the closet. The chair is empty.

But you’re not. Not really.

You sit in the same corner of the couch where Mark used to throw his legs across your lap.

Rest your head on the same pillow he once stole for himself.

You breathe.

And in the stillness—in the ache, in the quiet, in the thing that doesn’t have a name yet—you can’t help but think that,

Mark was always good at leaving… you just never got better at staying.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌The rain had stopped hours ago, but the ground still glistened.

Mud clung to his boots. Blood dried in thin lines along his ribs. The air smelled like iron, smoke, and burnt-out stars.

Mark didn’t feel any of it.

He sat still. Quiet. Shoulders hunched beneath the battered weight of his suit. Eyes unfocused. Breathing steady, but shallow. Like he didn’t want to take up space.

Like he didn’t deserve to.

He’d stopped keeping track of time weeks ago. Or maybe months.

There was no sun where he’d been—no moon, no clock, no human-made markers to tell him whether the world still turned without him.

He guessed it did.

It always did.

The cold crept in first—through his gloves, up his spine—but he didn’t shiver. He hadn’t in a long time. Everything about him was different now.

Everything except…

His hand moved. Slow. Careful.

Fingers brushed against the hidden seam in his suit—just under the chest area, where fabric frayed from wear and war.

He peeled it back.

And there it was.

A folded square of photo paper. Faded at the corners. Edges curled with time and sweat and memory. He unfolded it with the kind of care he didn’t show to anything else anymore.

The Polaroid was creased. Smudged. Soft in places where his thumb had held it too long.

But your face—your face was still there.

Captured in half-light and joy.

One of those accidental shots—mid-laugh, hair messy, your eyes looking somewhere off-frame like someone just said something ridiculous and you couldn’t help but smile.

He didn’t even remember who took it.

Just that you hadn’t wanted to keep it. And he had.

He kept it when he left. He kept it through everything. Buried it in the lining of his suit like it was armor.

Like if he held it close enough, he wouldn’t forget how you looked when you were happy.

When you were his.

Mark stared at it now like it could answer for everything. For the silence. The distance. The cowardice.

He’d nearly lost it once.

The suit got torn in some place he didn’t have a name for. He hadn’t even noticed the rip until hours later, bleeding from the mouth and limping through someone else’s wreckage.

When he found it again—caught in the lining, damp but whole—he almost broke.

He’d never let it out of his sight again.

Now, it rested against his palm like a heartbeat.

His fingers trembled. Not from the cold. Not from pain. Just from you.

He looked at your face the way you might look at something holy. Not like forgiveness—but like the memory of it.

And then, quietly—so quiet it almost didn’t leave his lips—he whispered your name. Soft. Once.

Like prayer.

Like penance.

He tucked the photo back where it belonged. Right over his heart. Pressed the seam shut like it was a secret.

Then Mark stood.

And didn’t look back.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌