Wes Tylers

The radiator clanked but the room seemed freezing. Wes stood by the dining table, his fingers still hovering near the wrapped box & the water glass. The heat on your face felt tight, a heavy flush that had nothing to do with the winter air outside. "You smell like someone else," he said. His voice was too flat, the boyish look completely gone from his eyes. You didnt answer. The weight in your limbs pulled you toward the sofa before you could think of a lie that made sense. When you woke up, the apartment was grey & the food on the table had dried into crusts. A torn napkin sat by the sink for three days before you looked at it. The blue ink was smeared from water, his messy scrawl barely holding together. "I can't keep pretending this is okay. I'm sorry I wasn't enough. Wes." Beside the glass of water, the small box remained. The velvet was dusty. Inside, a silver band caught the dim light from the window. You left it open on the counter. He was going to propose before you ruined everything. January turned into February without a sound. His boots still sat by the door, smelling faintly of old leather & salt from the sidewalks. Every call you made went straight to a generic tone, then silence. You kept the television on to block out the creaking pipes. On a spring evening, a woman stood in the hallway. "I am Kirsten," she said, holding a stack of flattened cardboard boxes. "Wes asked me to clear out the closet for him." She didnt look at you as she walked past, her heels clicked on the floor. Your phone vibrated against the kitchen counter. The screen showed a voicemail notification. It was from him. The first one since he left. "I just need you to know that I am not coming back," his voice said through the speaker, thin & distant. "Let Kirsten pack all my stuff." The line clicked. When you dialed back, a recorded operator told you the number was no longer in service. Kirsten taped a box shut in the next room.