Packed away

I look down at my finger, where his ring used to be. You can still see where the thick band used to sit, the skin is paler and less worn there, once protected. I wear a different ring there now, one I bought for myself. Smaller and more delicate, soft skin exposed.

I look down at where his ring used to be and I think of him. He told me to keep it, I said no. I didn't want to be reminded. But I still am. The skin will harden, eventually you won't be able to see where his ring used to be.

I told him to keep everything, the jewelry, the books, tokens and cards, pictures of us together, smiling and happy. I didn't want to remember.
Keep them for me, I said. To give back when I was ready. I've kept one thing, he didn't know I took it back. We bought friendship bracelets, avocados, one with a stone, one without. It's packed away in a box, I don't know where.

I imagine finding it, when it's been some years and I'm more healed than I am now. I imagine finding it all covered in dust, and imagine the tears. Maybe because I haven't thought about it in years, or maybe because I still haven't stopped.
I imagine him asking me if I want anything back. I say no, partly because it's true and partly to hurt him.

They can sit there gathering dust. He can keep then packed away in a box. I imagine him finding them years later. I imagine him seeing them and wondering how many years it's been since we've spoken. Wondering if he should reach out to me. But then he remembers that he's ruined it, and he shouldn't, and he cries.

I imagine that at the same time, miles apart, I've found the bracelet, I think of him and cry, because I want him to reach out, but I know he never will.