Page 128 of Unclench Me Softly

It’s also bullshit.

I’ll walk behind them, pretending I’m not hoping someone, any of them, all of them, turns around, pretending I’m not thinking about every kiss, every rough hand gone gentle, every sacred moan burned into my skin like vows no one dared to say out loud.

Pretending I don’t absolutely, viciously hate how well it worked.

Because they’re leaving lighter.

And I’ve never felt heavier.

I’ve been up for an hour, maybe three. Time doesn’t move normally on the last day of something you didn’t want to end.

My dome smells like lavender, crushed intention, and mild panic.

I’m kneeling on the floor in front of the low table, which now holds five makeshift “leave-behind” boxes I constructed out of leftover tea tins, foraged twigs, sacred twine, and the faint hope that symbolic rituals can stitch back together whatever part of me is fraying.

Each box is lined with dried herbs, a small piece of paper for writing the name of the version of themselves they’re releasing, and one color-coded mood sachet per man.

Asher’s is pink. Obviously. Filled with rose petals and a tiny quartz heart I found in the donation bin.

Jax’s is red. Cinnamon bark and black peppercorns. Masculine chaos and smolder.

Seb’s is green, sage and cedar and one perfect smooth stone he left on my altar two nights ago.

Jonah’s is black. Not charcoal. Not gray. Just black. Packed with clove and mugwort and whatever the hell is burning inside him.

And Miles gets blue. Lavender. Chamomile. A pressed daisy. Tied with navy ribbon like a contract. Because he’ll know the structure in that detail. He’ll see the meaning in the bow.

I stare at them all, then at the crooked little sign I’ve made that says:Leave what you were, walk what you are. The Labyrinth will keep what you no longer need.

It’s too much.

It’s not enough.

I don’t know what I’m doing.

This wasn’t supposed to matter like this.

They were supposed to come here, unravel a little, laugh, cry, maybe jerk off behind a tree under the guise of “reconnecting with their primal instincts,” and leave lighter than they came.

They weren’t supposed to become part of me.

They weren’t supposed to burrow under my skin, lace themselves into the fabric of my ridiculous robe-wrapped heart, and leave me blinking back tears in a dome that suddenly feels way too big and way too empty.

I’m still trying to shove the feeling down, still trying to reframe this asspiritual successand not personal apocalypse, when I hear it.

“Hey.” The voice is soft. Low. Cautious in the way people are when they’re about to step into a room that’s already burning.

I glance up and see Miles standing in the doorway, holding two mugs, one for him, one for whatever version of myself he’s about to find wrecked on the floor.

He takes one look at the boxes, at me sitting there cross-legged on the floor with my robe sliding off one shoulder, glitter still clinging to my collarbone like the world’s saddest Mardi Gras leftover, and his expression shifts.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice gentle enough to undo me if I let it.

“Yup,” I say, far too fast, far too bright, the kind of ‘yup’ that should come with flashing neon warning signs. “Great. Perfect. Just crafting sacred grief containers at eight a.m. like a completely normal woman with excellent boundaries and no unresolved abandonment issues whatsoever.”

His brow furrows, not buying it for a second. “You sure?”

I force a smile that feels more like a grimace, like baring my teeth at fate. “Tell the others to meet me at the Lavender Labyrinth in twenty minutes for the final ritual,” I say, my voice so steady it feels fake even to me.

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