Page 217 of Fractured Devotion

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Something pulls at my attention, subtle as the way shadows stretch with the morning light.

I rise, drawn by instinct more than thought, and drift toward the door.

And there lies the folded note, waiting as though it has always been there.

Its edges are sharp, tucked cleanly under the doorframe.

The hallway beyond is empty, quiet in the way abandoned places often are.

I pick it up, my heart steady but tight.

The paper is thick and rough against my fingertips.

There’s no signature.

Just words.

You don’t owe me anything.

Whatever was between us—whatever still burns in the dark corners—you’re free of it.

I don’t regret what we shared.

But I won’t be another chain around your throat.

I hope you build something better.

Something without ghosts like me.

If you ever need me, leave a message. You know how.

But if you don’t, I’ll disappear.

And I’ll never haunt you again.

My throat tightens, not from grief, and not from longing.

It tightens from the finality of it.

I fold the letter again carefully, and I tuck it inside the drawer of my nightstand.

I keep it not out of sentimentality.

But because I know I might need to someday remember that I chose to let go.

My phone buzzes beside me.

I glance at the screen.

It’s Alec.

I hesitate, then answer, my voice even. “Yes?”

“Are you okay?” His voice is calm, but I hear the tension under it.

I glance back at the drawer. “I’m moving,” I say simply.

A pause.

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