It had been two years.
Spot was fine.
He had more or less moved on. Everything in the apartment was his own- he'd taken all of his ex's old stuff and donated it. Or tossed it out. No trace of their relationship lingered. Almost no evidence of their messy breakup that led to his ex's leaving remained- save for the tiny scar on the back of Spot's hand from the glass that had been thrown across the room.
The room. Spot mostly avoided the dining room now, as it was where the majority of the fight had happened. He also didn't use those cups anymore. There were too many bad memories associated with them, so they were for "special occasions." Besides, he had other cups he could use- plastic ones. They were easier to clean, anyways.
At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
Sure.
But he truly thought he'd erased any clue that there was ever another person living here- until he found the box under his bed.
His bed. It had used to be their bed, with many mornings spent waking up beside who he had thought was the love of his life, watching him sleep, noting the way the sun hit his face and made him look even more angelic. Many nights were spent together, enjoying each other's warmth, listening to the other breathing and feeling so happy that they were there, in each other's arms.
Spot shook his head.
He had moved on.
He was fine.
The box was an old shoebox, with a brand on the side that Spot didn't remember ever buying. It must have been his.
A thin piece of weathered tape held the lid of the box on, and in messy handwriting on the top was one word. The name that had single-handedly made Spot's life and then destroyed it.
Tony.
Spot wanted to throw the box back under the bed. He wanted to get it out of his life and in doing so pretend he was getting him out of his life.
Tony.
Memories resurfaced- of a sly grin attached to shining eyes, of dark hair that was soft to the touch, of laughter that made Spot feel as though there was nothing wrong with the world. Of a slight accent, caused by an Italian bloodline and made stronger when he was angry or emotional, and small words uttered in his family's native language- curses or small exclamations when pleased or surprised.
Spot closed his eyes tight, willing the images to go away, and when they finally vanished, no doubt to arise again at the worst time, he opened his eyes and examined the box.
He'd never seen it before, which probably meant that it had been intentionally kept from him. Something twisted painfully in his stomach. Yet one more secret kept from me.
The old piece of tape broke off easily, and Spot opened the box as though unearthing a priceless treasure. This was it- the last piece of the life he'd lived two years ago, and by opening it, he was ridding himself of the mystery.
Upon opening the shoebox he found it stuffed with envelopes, stacked vertically as though in a filing cabinet. There were at least a hundred, maybe more.
And Spot's curiosity was peaked. What were they for?
He picked the one in the back out first, because it was the oldest-looking, and took it out to examine it.
It was addressed -to him- in messy handwriting he would know anywhere.
But it didn't say Spot. It said Sean.
