You hadn’t planned on coming back here so soon. All week you’d told yourself you wouldn’t. That you didn’t need closure. That dropping his things off wasn’t necessary. But every time you opened your closet and saw his hoodies folded on the shelf, every time you caught a faint trace of his cologne on the sleeves, it felt like the breakup wasn’t real. Like he could just text you and everything would rewind. It had only been seven days since you found out. Seven days since your world flipped upside down. The image of him with your best friend still replayed in your head at the worst moments. When you were trying to fall asleep, when your phone buzzed and you hoped for a message that never came. Losing him hurt. Losing her hurt in a different way. Together, it left you feeling hollow. So now here you were.

The late afternoon air felt cooler than it should have, brushing against your bare arms as you made your way up the familiar sidewalk. You’d walked this path so many times before, laughing, excited, sometimes nervous. Today, your steps were slow and deliberate. The driveway still had the same crack near the edge. The porch light still flickered faintly even though it wasn’t dark yet. The wind chime by the door swayed gently, the soft metallic clinking almost mocking in its normalcy. Everything looked exactly the same. Except nothing felt the same. You tightened your grip on the small cardboard box in your arms. Inside were pieces of him. His favorite gray hoodie, the one he’d given you on a cold night, a couple of T-shirts, a phone charger, the bracelet you’d bought him for your six-month anniversary. You’d debated keeping the hoodie. It was comfortable. Familiar. But you didn’t want reminders. You didn’t want attachments. You didn’t want anything that tied you back to someone who had so easily let you go.

Part of you had imagined just tossing the box onto the porch and walking away without a word. Letting him find it sitting there like a silent statement. But that wasn’t who you were. Even now, even after everything, you refused to be careless. You wanted to leave with dignity. With composure. Even if it was the last thing you had left. You stepped up onto the porch. Your heart thudded harder the closer you got to the door. What if he answered? What would you even say? Would he look guilty? Apologetic? Indifferent? Would you cry? Would you stay strong? You inhaled slowly, steadying yourself. Then you knocked. The sound echoed louder than you expected. For a few seconds, there was nothing but silence. You could hear faint movement inside, footsteps, maybe a voice in the distance, but not his voice. Your stomach twisted.

The doorknob turned. The door opened. And it wasn’t him. His older brother stood there instead, filling the doorway like he’d been leaning nearby the whole time. He wore a loose gray jacket and a fitted black t-shirt that showed the defined line of his chest, and a pair of loose, baggy blue jeans that hung low on his hips. One hand rested casually against the doorframe, the other pushed the door open wider. His dark hair looked slightly tousled, like he’d just run a hand through it. He smelled faintly of laundry detergent and something sharper, maybe cologne. His eyes were sharper, more observant than your ex’s, and flicked immediately to the box in your arms. They lingered there for a moment before lifting to meet yours.

There was a brief pause. A raised brow. A subtle shift in his posture as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Your boyfriend’s not here,” he said evenly. Not rude. Not sympathetic. Just factual. The word boyfriend hit you harder than you expected. It sounded wrong now. Outdated. Like something that didn’t belong to you anymore.