He was moving out, packing the last box. Yet, the pillow… the pillow held him back. It wasn’t just a pillow; it was a vessel of memories, a tangible connection to her. It was the pillow she always hugged when she was upset, the one that bore the imprint of her tears and comforted her when he wasn’t there. It carried the lingering scent of her winter shampoo, a fragrance that had become synonymous with her presence. And in that moment, he was transported to a time when she was still there.

The whole story unfolded in that pause. The soft fight they had over the wrong milk. The way she folded his shirts like she’d known him forever. These seemingly insignificant, yet deeply personal, domestic moments that kept them tethered are now a bittersweet reminder of what was.

He walked toward the door. Looked back once. She didn’t want to watch him leave. She thought he had gone already, until she walked into the kitchen and found him there, standing in the doorway like a car left idling too long.

He caught a faint trace of her perfume, the one she only wore to bed. Soft. Sensual. Hidden but impossible to miss. He noticed her without looking back.

And in that instant, a flood of memories from that bed began to unravel, like a tape that had been paused for too long, now set free.

She looked at him. Looked at his body, his dark skin, the curve of muscle in his arms. He was tall and strong, but she had always found the softness behind the stone. Always managed to see past the armour.

She walked up to him softly.

She always had a soft walk, like her feet were careful not to wake the floor.

Her hands found his back, palms warm, pressing gently, slowly, as if she could reach through muscle and bone to pull the love back out. The love they’d lost. She held him like she was searching for it, her longing palpable in the air, her touch a testament to the depth of her emotions.

He hadn’t felt her there in a long time. Maybe that was the beginning of the end; the absence of that simple, certain touch. And now, here it was again, after so long, flooding the room like it had been waiting at the door too.

He turned, his own hand finding her neck. Softer this time. Not the way he used to, pulling her in for a kiss that could set the air on fire. This was gentler. Slower. His fingers curved as if memorising the shape of her one last time.

He kissed her softly, then softer, then just enough. Enough to say:

I still want you.

I still love you.

I still want to stay.

But the space between them already knew,

You have to go.

He stepped back.

She didn’t.

She rushed forward, back to his lips, as if she could hold the feelings in place, as if she could stop them from slipping away. She kissed him, touched him, frantically searching for the memory, for the feeling she no longer received, her hands trembling with the intensity of her emotions.

But he didn’t meet her there.

And that’s when she realised.

She looked up into his eyes and felt a cold rush through her body. The look was different. Final. There was no longer love in his eyes. No longer longing. They had changed; warm brown turned dark, all the light gone, a stark indication of the finality of the moment.

She said nothing.

He smiled briefly.

His face was a mixture of sadness, longing, and disappointment; the face of someone who didn’t want to leave but had decided to in his mind. A face that told her, without words: Whatever you do now, touch the back of my neck, caress my body, look at me like I’m yours to protect, kiss me with everything you have, it won’t matter. The tape has been erased.

He picked up his last box.

Opened the door.

Looked to his side, avoiding her eyes one more time.

Let out a soft sigh.

And walked out. This time, he closed the door behind him.

She stood there for what felt like an hour, but it was only ten minutes, staring at the door, her feelings tangled and fighting inside her. At first, maybe he’ll come back. Perhaps he’ll open the door and rush into my arms, and kiss me until finality disappears.

But then, the quiet acceptance.

It felt like she moved through every step of grief in ten minutes. But she knew it was coming, and she embraced it.

She wiped the tear from her face.

Locked the door,

And left the key in this time.

Shantey Moabelo