5#05

5

As I wearily made my way back to the house Damien and I had called home for seven years, I paused to take a long, melancholic look at what was once my refuge.

The irony of it all struck me. I had been so certain this would be where I'd spend my life with him. Now, that belief seemed like a cruel jest.

Every part of the house held memories of us, moments that should have brought comfort. Instead, they cut through me like countless sharp blades, each more painful than the last.

The anguish was intolerable because I knew, deep down, that this home was never truly mine. Damien had created it for someone else, a version of me he thought I should be.

I was never sufficient, never quite matching his expectations, and staying here was just self-inflicted torment.

It was moment to depart.

The choice to leave had already been settled. Accepting the arranged union with the neighboring pack meant starting anew anyway. But I had lingered, hoping Damien might give me a reason to stay.

Instead, he opted to desert me as my support.

That evening, I found a large cardboard container and began the agonizing task of removing every trace of our past together.

I stowed away the slippers with the "wolf and moon" design that represented our connection, the cups that nestled together perfectly, and the keychains that vibrated when near each other. Damien had always claimed these items would remind me of his affection, especially during his absences.

At the time, I had been overjoyed to have them. They made me feel secure, as if our bond was unbreakable regardless of his location. But now, those same objects felt meaningless, their promises empty.

Next came the photographs and portraits. Each one captured a moment of our lives—holidays, celebrations, lazy mornings in bed. We were smiling in most of them, some taken spontaneously, appearing as the ideal couple. They had once been evidence of our bond, a testament to the love I thought we shared.

Now, they only made me nauseated. Looking at them felt like a cruel joke, a reminder of how oblivious I'd been to the growing distance between us.

None of it held significance anymore.

Damien hadn't returned in over a fortnight.

During his absence, I immersed myself in work. Creating gowns and dresses for the pack's ceremony kept my mind occupied, at least during daylight hours. At night, I packed away our memories, each item pulling me deeper into heartache until I cried myself numb.

Eventually, the acute pain dulled into quiet acceptance. I removed everything that once made the house feel warm and welcoming. Even the furniture I had carefully selected was replaced, leaving the space cold and minimalist, just black and white, like the day I first arrived.

The night before my departure, I considered contacting Damien one last time. Perhaps I needed closure, or maybe I just wanted him to fight for me, to give me a reason to hold on. But each time I dialed his number, he rejected the call.

Finally, a message arrived: If you haven't admitted your mistake and apologized to Kaia, there's nothing left for us to discuss.

I stared at the words, my mouth twisting into a bitter smile. Even after everything, he still held me responsible. He hadn't once asked for my perspective. Seven years together, and he dismissed me so easily.

If that's how he felt, then there was nothing more to say.

At dawn, I packed my suitcase and left the house that had once been my sanctuary. For the first time in weeks, I felt relief, stronger than any sorrow still lingering in my heart.

While waiting to board my flight, my phone buzzed with birthday messages. I'd forgotten it was my birthday. In previous years, Damien would have been the first to greet me, with a surprise planned for the day.

This year, his silence was more deafening than ever.

The messages were kind—some wished me happiness, others success, and a few who knew about the arranged union wished me luck with my new mate. I replied to them all, one by one, before turning off my phone.

As the plane took off, I gazed out at the sunrise breaking over the horizon and made a silent vow.

I would find happiness again.

This time, it wouldn't depend on anyone else.