I registered very little of the walk home, just that I carried none of the items from the list crumpled in my hand. When I entered my room, the choice before me—the right choice—hit hard as a slap.

All around me, the memory of Arie’s touches, his words in the shadows, infused every inch of space. I’d told him I loved him because I did. So much so, the thought of life without him caused a searing pang in my chest.

But he deserved more.

Which was why I needed to leave.

I couldn’t wait. If he walked in right then, I’d lose my already tenuous will.

In a sudden frenzy, I rushed to the storage closet and grabbed a large travel bag. Through split-second decisions, practicality rivaling sentiment, I packed my personal belongings and stage supplies. For now, Papa’s boots would stay, but his pocket watch would come; my large magic rings wouldn’t fit, but trick cuffs and card decks would.

I moved on to my nightstand drawer and stopped. Emotions swelled unexpectedly from the jumble beneath my fingers: a swatch of brown yarn from Mrs. Jansen’s knitting lessons; the Christmas ornament I’d made with a shell and ribbons, which I had hung on a tree Arie cut down; a pocket booklet of constellations that, compliments of Mr. Jansen, had kicked off my astronomy-loving phase.

All together they formed a collage of memories, reflecting the life here I had built. One I longed to continue, with Arie most of all.

Maybe he was right about any issues being details…

Then again, even Hendrik and Nita Dewitt, the most idyllic of couples, parted ways for simply wanting “different things.” Such things, after all, could mean everything.

At my desk, I snatched a pencil and two sheets of stationery. On the first, I told Mr. and Mrs. Jansen how tremendously I appreciated all their years of generosity, how an unforeseen stage opportunity had called me away but I’d soon send an update.

Eyes clouding, I proceeded to the second sheet. I clutched the pencil, desperate to explain, horrified by the assumptions Arie could otherwise make.

But logic stepped in. It argued that my saying too much could lure him to find me, and once back in his arms, my resistance would falter.

For his sake alone, I forced my hand to scribe the meager truth I could manage.

My dearest Arie,

I pray one day you’ll forgive me.

Forever, Fen

In his bedroom, converted from a porch, I placed the message on his pillow. I recalled the mornings I’d wake him from oversleeping, how he’d look up at me with bleary eyes. My heart seized at the vision. Shoving it away, I weighed down the folded note with a cherished token. It was the wooden train that had first brought us together. A gift that truly belonged to him.