Chapter 3

The cardboard boxes scattered across my living room floor looked like the remnants of a life I no longer recognized. Seven years of shared memories reduced to practical decisions: his books or mine, whose coffee mug belonged to whom, which photographs I could bear to keep.

I was folding sweaters when my fingers brushed against something hard wedged between two photo albums. A small USB drive, unmarked and forgotten. My laptop sat open on the coffee table, so I plugged it in without thinking much about it.

The folder that appeared made my breath catch: "Songs for Em." Dozens of audio files with names that transported me back to our beginning—"Emerie's Lullaby," "Ocean Eyes," "Coffee Shop Dreams," "First Kiss Under Stars." I clicked on the first one with trembling fingers.

Talon's voice filled my apartment, younger and rawer than I remembered, singing words he'd written specifically for me. "Emerie's Lullaby" had been composed after our third date, when I'd mentioned having trouble sleeping. "Ocean Eyes" came after I'd told him about my childhood dream of becoming a marine biologist, before I'd changed my major to business because he'd said it was more practical.

These songs were ours. Sacred. Intimate. The soundtrack to our love story that no one else was supposed to hear.

But as I listened, fragments of recent memories began clicking into place like puzzle pieces. Luz humming "Ocean Eyes" at last month's barbecue. Her knowing smile when "Coffee Shop Dreams" played on the radio during our group dinner. The way she'd referenced lyrics from "First Kiss Under Stars" in casual conversation, as if she'd memorized them.

My phone was in my hand before I'd consciously decided to call him.

"Em?" Talon's voice was eager, hopeful. "I'm so glad you—"

"How does Luz know our songs?" The words came out flat, emotionless.

Silence stretched between us. I could hear him breathing, probably running his hand through his hair the way he did when he was trying to find the right words to minimize something.

"What do you mean?" he finally asked.

"I found the USB drive. The songs you wrote for me. And I remember now—Luz knows them. She hums them. She quotes them. So I'll ask again: how does she know our songs?"

Another pause. "Em, you're making this sound worse than it is."

"Just answer the question, Talon."

"Look, Luz was going through a really rough patch a couple years ago. Her depression was getting bad, and I thought... music heals people, you know? I shared a few songs with her to help her feel better."

The USB drive slipped from my fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. "A few songs?"

"She needed something beautiful in her life. You've always said music has healing power—"

"Those weren't just songs!" The words exploded out of me. "They were love letters. They were pieces of us. They were supposed to be ours alone."

"You're being dramatic. They're just songs, Em."

Just songs. The phrase hit me like a physical blow. "No, Talon. They were our story. And you gave our story away."

I hung up before he could respond, my hands shaking as I stared at the screen full of file names that suddenly felt like violations. Each title was a memory cheapened, a moment between us that was no longer sacred because he'd handed it to someone else like a casual gift.

The knock on my door came at midnight, sharp and insistent. I knew it was him before I looked through the peephole. Talon stood in the hallway, his hair disheveled, his shirt wrinkled, swaying slightly on his feet.

"Open the door, Em," he called, his words slurring together. "We need to talk."

I cracked the door, keeping the chain latched. The smell of whiskey hit me immediately. "You're drunk."

"So what?" He leaned against the doorframe, his eyes glassy and unfocused. "Maybe I need to be drunk to deal with you punishing me for caring about my friends."

"Go home, Talon."

"No." He pushed against the door, making the chain rattle. "I'm tired of this. You want to know about Luz? Fine. Four years ago, when she was going through her depression, I helped her. I bought her dresses for job interviews because she couldn't afford them. I went with her to get her ears pierced because she was too scared to go alone. I was being a good friend."

Each revelation felt like another weight added to my chest. "You bought her dresses?"

"She needed help!"

"Those are things boyfriends do, Talon. Not friends."

His face flushed red. "That's exactly your problem! You think helping friends is cheating. You're so controlling and insecure that you can't stand me caring about anyone but you."

The accusation hung in the air between us, and I realized with startling clarity that this was how he saw me—not as a woman who'd been repeatedly sidelined, but as a jealous, controlling girlfriend who couldn't handle his friendships.

"You're right," I said quietly, and watched hope flicker in his eyes. "I can't stand you caring more about her than me. And I'm done pretending that's my problem to fix."

I closed the door and turned the deadbolt, his protests echoing in the hallway as I walked back to my boxes, each step feeling like progress toward something I couldn't yet name but desperately needed to find.