Mckin

able. My message, the news of my acceptance to Chicago Law, would be a jarring intrusion into their perfect bubble. I closed my

from his phone, immersed in a world where I clearly had no place. The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow: he truly didn' t car

ree days until Chicago.

here, his presence lingered in faded photographs and sha

nt to years of shared history. Jordan and me, laughing, playing, growing up. A pang of longin

ories, or at least, trying to. The click echoed in the quiet room

led out an old, beat-up suitcase from the back of my closet, its faded canvas a sile

ten past. Each item, a shirt he' d complimented, a book he' d recommended, a small trinket he' d given me, carried a silent weight. I picked them up,

gical detachment. Each addition felt like a release, a small victory in my war against

ece. But this emptiness, I reasoned, was necessary. It was the space for something

y breath catching. No. Not that one. I couldn't. But I

leather-bound diary. My heart throbbed. I picked it up, my fingers

to a ran

a good girl. But I don't want to be good. I want my mommy. I want my daddy. Jordan held my

ordan. Always Jordan. He had been my anchor, my sav

her

chased them away. He said I was his little sister and no one gets to hurt hi

everything. Every page, every memory, every whispered hope, was intertwine

love. All of it, now just a faded memory, a cruel reminder of what I once had, or thought I had

sever the ties that still bound me. My hands shook, my heart screamed, but I didn't stop. I tore them into smaller and smaller pieces, until they were nothing but confetti of a

followed by the clinking of glasses. Jordan. And Gwynet

om, their faces flushed with happiness. She was draped across him, her head resting on

door. Her smile, a saccharine sweet thing, widened. "Kianna, da

iana' s confident assertion, Gwyneth's knowing smile, propelled me forward. I pu

asn't a compliment. It was a subtle jab, a reminder that I was out of place, out of their worl

rdan's casual mention of The Periwinkle. My mind raced, remembering my own silent, debilitating allergy to a rare type of s

, her voice dripping with mock sweetness, confirming my worst fea

would use it to hurt me. He had forgotten. Or worse, he hadn't ca

you wanted to try their famous lobster bisque, didn't you?" He looked at me, his eyes full of that familia

ber. The weight of his indifference crushed something vital inside me. There w

h, Jordan," I said, my voice barely a whisper, but firm. "It's...

. He had freed me. The pain of the gift, the casual cruelty of his forgetfulness, had severed the last, fragile threa