…suitcase already by the door.
At first I thought he was being sweet — maybe he’d packed for me so we could leave sooner.
Then I noticed it wasn’t packed with my winter clothes.
It was packed with all my summer dresses. My sandals. My makeup bag. My jewelry case.
Only my things.
I slowly walked into the bedroom.
My closet was half empty.
His was untouched.
My stomach dropped.
I found him in the kitchen scrolling on his phone like nothing was wrong.
“Why are my things packed?” I asked.
He looked up, startled. “Oh. I, uh… figured you could go ahead to Alaska first. Get settled with your mom. I’ll stay here and tie up loose ends.”
“Loose ends?” I repeated.
“Yeah. I just… I don’t think Alaska is for me,” he admitted. “It’s too isolated. And I’ve been thinking… maybe some space would be good.”
Space.
After telling my mom how much he wanted to build a life with me.
After letting her offer her home.
After letting me believe we were starting fresh.
“You asked her for help,” I said quietly.
He shrugged. “I didn’t think she’d actually expect us to go.”
That’s when it clicked.
He never wanted a new start.
He wanted a safety net.
And when it became real — when it required effort — he folded.
I walked past him, unzipped my suitcase, and began putting my things back where they belonged.
“You’re right,” I said calmly. “I’ll go to Alaska.”
He blinked. “Wait — what?”
“But I won’t be coming back for you.”
Two months later, I was standing in snow up to my knees, working a steady job, saving more money than I ever had before.
The isolation wasn’t suffocating.
It was clarifying.
Turns out, I didn’t need him to build a life.
Just the courage to leave.
