Chapter Seven
(Sky)
I throw things away every day.
Not just trash. Not just broken things that won't work anymore.
Memories. Moments. Hopes. Sometimes even pieces of myself.
The apartment smells like fried onions and cheap soap when I come home from the diner. Evan's not here yet. I set the groceries down, peeling the plastic carefully so nothing gets ruined. I catch sight of the pile of old shoes in the corner—his shoes. Too small now. Too worn. I almost keep them. For what? A memory? A ghost of the boy who once held my finger like it was the only thing keeping him steady?
No. I toss them in the trash bag.
I throw away his old drawings from kindergarten, the scribbled hearts with my name crooked in the corner. I throw away the tiny, threadbare sweatshirt he loved, the one he wore to school until the elbows frayed. I throw away my own journal from when I first found out I was pregnant—half empty pages of fear, hope, and love I wasn't allowed to feel.
I throw things away because keeping them hurts too much.
Evan comes home then, dropping his backpack on the floor like a bomb. He doesn't look at me. He doesn't see the trash bag leaning against the wall, waiting to be tied up and carried out.
"Dinner's almost ready," I say softly, too softly.
He hums, flipping open his laptop. "Cool."
I swallow. Always swallowing. Because he's grown. Because the boy who clung to me for warmth is now tall, indifferent, sharp-edged. Because love isn't supposed to feel like this—like walking on shards of glass every day, hoping he doesn't notice.
I start preparing the chicken, careful with the seasoning. I hum a song he used to love when he was five.
He rolls his eyes, of course.
"I told you I don't like that song," he mutters.
I laugh quietly, almost bitterly. "I know. I like it anyway."
He doesn't answer. He never does when he's annoyed.
I glance at the pile of trash again. All the things I've thrown away.
Some for his sake. Some for mine. Some because the weight of loving him so fiercely and having him push me away is more than I can carry.
Sometimes I wonder what it would have been like if I'd thrown less.
If I'd held on harder. Hugged more. Told him I loved him louder, even when it embarrassed him.
But every day, I throw pieces of my heart into the bag with the trash, tie it tight, and carry it out like it's just garbage.
Because if I don't, it'll crush me.
And even though he hates it, even though he pushes me away, even though he calls me embarrassing… I keep loving him.
Loudly. Painfully. And without pause.
Because that's all I know.
And one day, when he's grown and far from here, maybe he'll understand why I threw things away.
Or maybe he'll only remember the empty spaces.