Things She Left Behind

I’ve always been good at remembering details. The sound of rain tapping on the windows during our first argument, the exact shade of her lipstick when she smiled at me that night under the streetlights, the way her hair smelled like lavender the last time we kissed. It’s the little things that stick with you, even after the big things crumble away.

But that’s not why you’re here, is it? You don’t care about the lavender or the rain. You want to know what happened to Lucy.

You think I did it, don’t you? The police think so too. But I didn’t. I loved her. I still do. She’s missing, but she’ll come back. I know she will.

Let me tell you how it started. You deserve to hear my side of the story.

Lucy and I had been together for three years. It wasn’t perfect, but no relationship is, right? We had our ups and downs, sure. But we were in love. She used to laugh and say we were two sides of the same coin—always close but never quite the same. I liked that. It made us sound poetic, like we were part of something bigger than ourselves.

Things started to change about six months ago. She began acting… strange. Distant. There were late nights at work that didn’t add up, phone calls she took in another room, moments when I’d catch her staring at nothing, lost in thought. When I asked her about it, she’d just smile that soft, sad smile of hers and say, “You’re imagining things.”

But I wasn’t. I know what I saw.

There was the time I found her car parked on the other side of town, outside a little café I didn’t even know she went to. She swore she was just meeting an old friend, but when I checked inside, she wasn’t there. She’d left five minutes before I arrived, according to the waitress. Lucy said it was a misunderstanding, that I was being paranoid. But how could I ignore it?

I started paying attention more after that. Little things, like the way her toothbrush would be wet when she came home late, even though she hadn’t been home in hours. Or how she suddenly had new clothes, but when I asked where they came from, she couldn’t remember.

“You’re overthinking,” she’d say, her voice calm, almost too calm. “Everything’s fine.”

But I wasn’t overthinking. I knew something was wrong. I could feel it. So, I did what any rational person would do—I started following her. Just to be sure. Just to prove to myself that I wasn’t losing it.

One night, I trailed her to a house I’d never seen before, far out in the suburbs. She went inside, stayed for almost an hour, then came out like nothing had happened. When I confronted her about it, she looked at me with this blank expression, as if she didn’t even recognize me.

“That’s my friend’s house,” she said, her voice flat. “You’re being ridiculous.”

But I knew better. I could feel the distance growing between us, like she was slipping through my fingers, and I couldn’t stop it. I just wanted things to go back to how they were, when we were happy, when she still loved me.

And then she disappeared.

That morning was like any other. I woke up, but Lucy’s side of the bed was cold. I figured she’d gone for an early run—she did that sometimes. But as the hours passed and she didn’t come back, I started to worry. I texted, I called. Nothing. Her phone went straight to voicemail.

The police got involved eventually, of course. They asked all the usual questions: Did we have a fight? Had she mentioned wanting to leave? Was she seeing anyone else? I answered them all the same way—no, no, no. But they didn’t believe me. They never do, in cases like this.

They searched the house, questioned the neighbors. Still, no sign of Lucy.

And then, they found her things.

In the trunk of my car, buried under some old blankets, were Lucy’s gym bag, her shoes, and her phone—broken in half. I don’t know how they got there. I swear I don’t. I didn’t touch them. But that didn’t matter, did it? The police had all the evidence they needed.

They said the items were covered in dirt from the woods behind our house. They asked me why I hadn’t mentioned she’d been back there. I hadn’t. I didn’t even know she went back there.

But there’s something you don’t understand. I didn’t lie to them. I just didn’t… remember. The woods, the bag, the phone—it’s all a blur, like pieces of a dream I can’t quite put together.

Here’s the thing: I know what you’re thinking. It sounds suspicious, doesn’t it? But you have to understand, Lucy was keeping things from me. I had to protect us, protect her. That’s what love is, right? Protecting someone, even when they don’t realize they need protecting?

I didn’t hurt her. I didn’t. You have to believe me. She’ll come back. She always does.

Except… she didn’t, did she?

I’ve been thinking about that last night a lot. The police say I’m lying, that I know more than I’m letting on. But here’s the truth, the real truth: I can’t remember. I try, but the memories are all jumbled. I see flashes—Lucy’s face, pale in the moonlight, the woods, the sound of leaves crunching underfoot. I hear her voice, but I can’t make out the words. I reach for her, but she slips away.

I didn’t do anything to Lucy. I loved her. I still do. But sometimes, in the quiet moments when I’m alone, I wonder if maybe… maybe I did.

Could I have hurt her without knowing? Could I have… forgotten?

I don’t think so. But then again, I can’t trust myself anymore, can I?

The other day, I found something strange in the attic. It was one of Lucy’s scarves, tucked into a box of old photos. I don’t remember putting it there. I don’t even know how it got up there. But when I held it, it smelled like lavender.

Lavender. Just like her.

She’s still here, somewhere. I know she is.

I just . . . can’t remember . . . where.