Then I slid the medical report into the top drawer of my bedside table.
That drawer held all my most precious things:
The belongings my parents left behind, Sean’s keepsakes, proof that my child had existed, and the charm pendant Callum had begged for on my behalf when I fell ill three years ago.
I took out Sean’s belongings—there was still a faint bloodstain on them.
I talked to him for a long time, updating him on Callum, on everything.
Then, carefully, I placed it all back inside.
“Sean,” I whispered, “I’m going to live my own life now.”
After locking the drawer, I packed my luggage and booked a flight five days out.
For the next five days, I stayed home and painted.
Callum, meanwhile, was off traveling with Caryn. Their couple photos were sent to me, one after another, from an unfamiliar number.
I knew it was Caryn.
During those five days, Callum called me more than once. I didn’t answer.
Then, the day they returned, I got a call from another unknown number.
“Diana,” Caryn said, her tone giddy, “Callum proposed to me.”
We’d only spoken three times before, and I’d barely said a word each time.
Now, I gave her a single response. “Alright.”
Then she sent me a photo—her hand with a ring on it.
I swallowed the bitterness rising in my chest and replied, “Congratulations.”
Then I ended the call and drove to the airport.
Just before boarding, a message from Callum popped up.
[Diana, where are you? You’re not home.]
Then his calls came, one after another. I ignored them all.
Only when I was about to turn off my phone did I finally answer.
“Callum,” I said. “Take care of yourself. Goodbye.”
Then came his voice—rough, almost broken. “I saw what you kept in your nightstand! Is that why you’re leaving? Because of your pregnancy and the miscarriage? Are you leaving out of guilt because you think you’ve let my brother down?”
