The diamond I left on the closet floor eventually went back to the jeweler.
The gifts disappeared.
The abandoned ballroom flowers died within days.
But the old suitcase I carried to JFK stayed with me.
I keep it in the back of my closet even now.
Not because I miss that night.
Because sometimes I see its scratched handle and remember the woman who walked away with almost nothing glamorous: documents, a laptop, a watch, three suits, two pairs of flats, and the first decision she had made entirely for herself in years.
Ethan had called me temporary.
He was right about one thing.
The version of me willing to disappear inside his life was temporary.
She never made it to the altar.
