Seven Years as a Substitute

Dragging my exhausted body back to the safe house, I took a long, detailed look at this place where I'd lived for the past seven years.

Every corner held memories of Dominic and me. Once so beautiful, now stabbing into my heart like a thousand sharp blades. The kitchen counter where he'd stood behind me, arms around my waist, teaching me to fold pasta dough. The hallway where I'd waited up past midnight, listening for the sound of his car pulling into the garage. The bedroom doorway where he'd lean, watching me sleep, thinking I didn't know.

I found a large cardboard box and, unable to sleep, spent the night erasing those remnants of happiness.

There were the matching house slippers with our initials stitched inside, the pair of espresso cups that nested together when you turned them just right, the twin Saint Christopher medals he'd had blessed at the same church on the same day. And a whole box of photographs and Polaroids. These were once the only proof of our relationship, especially in those times when I felt insecure. No public dinners. No Family gatherings. No seat beside him at any table that mattered. Just these small, hidden things in a house nobody knew I shared with him.

Now, there was no need for any of it.

Dominic didn't come home for half a month. In that time, apart from finishing my design drafts, I nearly cleared out the entire house. I even disposed of the furniture I'd chosen myself, leaving the place as it was when I first moved in. Black and white, so minimal that you could see the entire room in a single glance. No warmth. No evidence. As if I had never existed here at all.

The night before I left, I thought I should at least say something to Dominic, so I called him. But every time I dialed, he kept rejecting my calls. After a while, he sent me a message.

"If you haven't realized your mistake and aren't genuinely ready to apologize to Serafina, then I don't think there's any reason for us to speak."

I smiled bitterly. Well, if that's the case, then we won't speak. My thumb turned the ring on my right hand, one slow rotation. Then it stopped.

Early the next morning, I headed out with my suitcase for my flight.

As I left what was once my warm and cherished home, I felt nothing but overwhelming relief. The lock clicked behind me with a sound so final it could have been a door closing on a crypt. I did not look back. There was nothing left inside that place worth looking at.

Just before boarding, my phone buzzed with countless birthday messages. Some wished me great success, some wished me peace and happiness, and some wished me a blessed marriage with a wonderful partner.

After replying to each one, I turned off my phone.

As the plane took off, I thought to myself: I will be happy. With so many blessings, I knew I would be. Below me, the city shrank to a grid of lights, and somewhere in that grid, in a compound I would never enter again, Dominic Marchetti did not know I was gone.