Out of Ink | A Short Story

Afterwards

Months have passed. I'm standing in my room — now bare, stripped of all my belongings, which are currently stuffed in the suitcases outside. I kneel down beside my bed and pull out a box.

For a moment, I sit staring. Inside, I know there is a typewriter, a polaroid, and a package of letters. Tears spring up, fracturing my vision like a kaleidoscope, as memories — and heavy, aching loss — wash over me.

This is it.

I'm really moving on without him. He should be here.

Matt honks the horn. "Nads," Lilly shouts from the door. "A little help with the luggage."

I swallow hard, and take a deep breath. "Coming," I answer my friend. I stand up, holding the box in my arms. As I make my way out, I take off the lid and place the typewriter in the donation pile. I toss the letters in the trash bag. A soft clunk sounds, then nothing. As for the picture ... I slide it into my jacket.

Just in case.

Then, I square my shoulders, and I continue walking.

I am Nadia Barlin, and I am eighteen years old. I used to live in a house that held a shattered family, and I loved a boy who held the ocean in his eyes.

I don't have much, now. Just a donated typewriter, some discarded letters, and a photo that I will always, always keep near my heart. 

Perhaps, in time, I'll regain all that I've lost.