Even though I’d lived in this house for decades, that morning, it felt unfamiliar—like a place I no longer belonged. I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the half-packed suitcase, my hands curled around a chipped coffee mug that read, Forever & Always. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
The empty side of the bed seemed to mock me. I ran my fingers over the sheets and whispered, “Well, I guess we didn’t make it.”
Packing felt more like picking through wreckage than preparing for a fresh start. I had clung to the past long enough, but moving forward felt just as terrifying. My laptop sat on the desk, a silent companion to two years of work—my unfinished novel, the only thing that still felt like mine.
Then, Lana’s email arrived.
“Creative retreat. Warm island. Fresh start. Wine.”
Of course, there was wine. Lana could make anything sound like a good idea. At first, I hesitated. Running away wasn’t my style. But what if this was more than running away? What if it was running toward something?
