That night, I didn’t chase explanations. Instead, I opened old messages, reread notes she’d left on grocery lists, listened to voicemails I’d saved without reason. The charge was still there, unchanged, but it no longer felt like an accusation. It felt like a question. I understood then that closure isn’t a locked box you put things into; it’s a choice you make each day. Whether the clerk was right or wrong didn’t matter as much as this: love doesn’t vanish on schedule. Sometimes it lingers, sometimes it startles you, and sometimes it reminds you that the story you thought had ended may simply be learning how to speak in a different way.
