“I don’t tell anyone unless I have to.” A humorless chuckle escapes me, and I shake my head. “Doesn’t fucking matter now, does it?”

“I wasn’t just anyone.” Her voice splinters, and she clears her throat. “At least that’s what I thought.”

The journal sits between us, a tangible reminder of everything we were—everything we lost. And it kills me.

I turn away from Magnolia… because it just hurts so damn much to look at her.

My gaze drifts around the room, soaking it all in. Her apartment looks just like I imagined—elegant in every detail, with a warmth that makes it hers. Sophisticated, but stamped with her imprint in every corner.

It’s very Magnolia.

And there are the photos—dozens of them. Some in frames, others pinned to a wire grid near her desk. Magnolia with Violet, both of them laughing, arms wrapped around each other in a way that speaks of years of friendship. Magnolia with a group of women I don’t recognize, all in dance attire, mid-pose and beaming.

But the one that stops me cold is a picture of us. Me and Magnolia. Together.

It’s a shot of us in Sydney—her tucked under my arm, grinning up at me like I’d hung the damn moon. I remember that day, the way she laughed at something ridiculous I said, the way I kissed the top of her head without thinking twice.

What kind of man lets his girlfriend, or fuck buddy, keep a photo like this out in the open? What kind of guy is fine with a constant reminder of her ex?

My focus shifts, and that’s when I see it—a basket in the corner, filled with rolled-up Samoan mats, one half-finished and draped over the edge like she abandoned it mid-weave. Next to it, a shelf stacked with books about Samoa and its culture. A map of the islands hangs on the wall, surrounded by small artifacts that are too specific to be mere decoration.

I step closer, my brows pulling together. “What’s all this?”

She glares at me, silent.

“Tell me, Magnolia.”

“What do you think it is?”

My eyes move over the intricate patterns on the mat, the careful stitching she did by hand. “I don’t know.”

I’m confused.

Her fingers brush over the half-finished mat like it’s something precious. “I was immersing myself into the culture of the man I loved.”

Loved. Past tense.

Her hand flattens over the woven strands. “This was going to be a gift for your birthday. Because in Samoan culture, when you give someone a mat you’ve made with your own hands, it’s not just a gift. It’s a piece of yourself—something sacred, something you only give when it truly matters.”

I’m lost for words. The weight of it, the care, the meaning—it’s too much.

It hurts.