You're nothing more than the title of a girlfriend. That's the truth that hits you as you watch your hands fold each piece of clothing, placing it neatly in the open suitcase on the bed. Everything around you smells like him, that unmistakable mix of cigarettes, alcohol, and a faint trace of expensive cologne. But now that scent feels foreign, intrusive. It was never really yours. Maybe it never was.

The door opens. Eddie is there, his figure framed against the light from the hallway. His hair is messy, his shirt wrinkled, and his gaze takes too long to find you. As if he didn’t expect to see you there. As if, somehow, you had already left long ago.

“What are you doing?” he asks. There’s no trace of concern in his voice, not a drop of urgency. Just curiosity, as if he’s found you packing for a trip he didn’t know about.

Eddie takes a step into the room. The guitar is still slung over his shoulder, as if he couldn’t part with it, not even for an important conversation. Not even for you.

“Are you leaving?”