Chapter 5: Ruins

Our apartment sat on the first floor of a crumbling ‘90s walk-up—pipes rattled, drains never worked right. When we finally got inside, chaos greeted us: muddy water everywhere, half our stuff bobbing like sad little boats.

A foot of brown water floated our toothbrush cups, the mismatched slippers Jason insisted on, and the photos we’d taped to the wall with string lights and thumbtacks.

Birthday cake smeared on noses, sparklers for New Year’s, goofy heart hands on the Fourth of July—moments frozen in time, now warped and blurred by dirty water.

“It’s all ruined. Can’t see any of them now.”

Jason set me on the shoe cabinet, fishing out soggy photos one by one. With each wrinkled snapshot, his brow furrowed, frustration and maybe regret flickering in his eyes.

I wanted to ask—

[If it was all a game, do these memories even matter?]

But all that came out was, flat and tired,

“Gone is gone. It’s nothing important.”

“Not important? If this isn’t, then what is?”

Jason stared, searching my face, confusion and pain flickering in his eyes. He looked lost—like a kid at the county fair who just realized his ride was over.

Are these your trophies for tricking me all these years? Is that why you care?

I pinched my palm hard, biting back the words.