At home, alone late at night, she puts everything left in a box marked "Then, not Now" and prepares to have it shipped. These were the few items that she could not throw out into the street for fear he would seek revenge. Then again, she had been told he was plotting it already anyway. She was one step ahead.
She was surprised when it didn't take very long. It took a half glass of wine, a song, and a quick read to get it all done. The night was heavy with rain and the lights in her place dimmed for the occasion. As she packed each sheet of paper, each little scrap of what could be called "what's left of it," she wondered to herself if this was right? Did it really have to go like this? Did it have to be her way, or rather, her fault? She wasn't sure.
She would likely never know.
She had never purged anything in her life - had always kept some remnant, some leave-behind-item as a lasting testament to what was once so very beautiful and genuine. It scared her on this night, knowing that in the morning, there'd be nothing left. But she couldn't write like this anymore. It hurt too much. And it didn't mean anything, didn't make sense anymore. So much was so foreign and so far away.
Surely he would understand. Surely it would make sense to him when he heard it - when he saw it the way it really was. He had once told her that to truly write this poetry, to truly put herself, her soul, her whole being into it, she had to follow the path of solitude. This was her shack in the wilderness.
She placed the story she had written on top. He didn't know she wrote real fiction. He never knew she'd been writing the entire time - didn't know it had been about him when he wasn't looking. Now he would know. Now maybe he would see her, sense her, in the way he should have all along. Back then, she'd just been a student.
Smiling, she added only a few other items in hopes that he'd see her and remember only the good about writing and creating with her - a rumpled t-shirt, a card, his book, the letter she never sent, and the two photos, one of her naked body and the one she once took that he didn't know about.
And she closed the box, sealed it with tape before she could think again and then took a long drag off of her wine. She wrote no return in the corner and grabbed the dark felt marker to address it.
In the morning, she took it to the post office and handed it to the morning clerk. "Please send this express," she said coldly, the wine still in her eyes.
And she let go of the box before she could stop herself, knowing she'd addressed it to another woman instead...
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