The brand Eugene had begged me to try over and over, the flavored ones I'd never agreed to.
I clenched the receipt and went straight to the bedroom. Pulled open the nightstand drawer.
Our usual condoms were still there.
Of the three new boxes, only one was left.
I opened the closet.
Right at the front, Eugene's pajamas sat neatly folded.
Eugene never folded his clothes—especially not his pajamas. I was always the one trailing behind him, picking up after him. But those pajamas weren't folded by me.
I yanked them out of the closet.
A long strand of chestnut hair, clinging to the fabric.
My hands were shaking as I pulled out my phone.
I found Eugene's X account, tapped through to the profile of the girl who'd been replying to him.
Stared at her chestnut hair in photo after photo.
The color. The same.
The length. The same.
I ripped the pillows off the bed.
Under mine,
tucked away, overlooked, never cleaned up: more strands of chestnut hair.
I stumbled into the bathroom.
Near the drain—chestnut hair again.
My stomach lurched.
I grabbed the toilet and retched, one raw heave after another.
I collapsed onto the tile, legs gone, back against the wall.