Chapter 2 — New Beginnings

Jaclyn

The faint scent of fresh paint lingered in the air, mingling with the sterile, almost too-perfect cleanliness of the apartment. My heels clicked against the polished hardwood floors, the sound sharp, hollow, and a little too final. Sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting long, golden rectangles across the living room. Beyond the glass, the city skyline glimmered—a glittering promise of opportunity or, perhaps, a silent reminder of all the things I still couldn’t leave behind.

Mark stood in the middle of the room, hands on his hips, turning in a slow circle as he surveyed the space. His sandy blond hair caught the light, framing his face with a halo of warmth. When he turned to me, his brown eyes held a familiar glow of satisfaction, radiating the quiet confidence that seemed to anchor him.

“Well?” he asked, the hope in his voice unmistakable. “What do you think? Starting to feel like home, isn’t it?”

I tried to match his enthusiasm. My lips curved into a smile, but it felt tight, like uncooked dough pressed into a mold. “It’s beautiful,” I said, my voice measured but distant, as though I were reading the words off a script.

And it was beautiful. The apartment was immaculate, a masterpiece of order and simplicity. Soft grays, clean whites, and muted beiges dominated the space, as though someone had designed it with the sole purpose of ensuring life could not spill over its edges. Everything was in its proper place, no clutter, no chaos.

It was perfect. It was safe.

But standing here, staring out at the skyline, I felt like an imposter in a life that didn’t quite belong to me.

Mark crossed the room in a few easy strides, his arm slipping around my waist with the familiarity of someone who knew exactly where he fit. His warmth seeped into me, grounding me. “You really outdid yourself picking everything out,” he murmured, pressing a light kiss to my temple.

I leaned into him out of instinct, though the motion felt mechanical. “Thanks,” I said softly, letting the word fill the space between us.

The truth was, Mark had done most of the work. The sleek glass coffee table in the center of the room, the minimalist art prints hanging so precisely on the walls, even the muted gray throw draped neatly across the couch—it was all him. I had nodded along, agreeing to every decision with the detachment of a spectator.

This apartment was supposed to be our fresh start. A blank canvas for the life Mark believed in so deeply, the life I was still trying to convince myself I wanted.

Mark stepped into the open kitchen, his movements as fluid and purposeful as always. “I’m thinking takeout tonight. Pizza or Thai?”

“Whatever you want,” I replied automatically, my gaze drifting across the room.

My eyes landed on a single cardboard box sitting by the couch, the last one left to unpack. “Jaclyn – Misc.” was written across the top in Mark’s sharp, neat handwriting. It looked jarringly out of place in this curated sanctuary, an unwelcome intruder.

I knelt beside it, running my fingers over the tape before pulling it free with a soft rip. Inside was a jumble of items—a stack of old journals, a beaded bracelet my mother had given me when I graduated from medical school, and a crumpled photograph of me and Aaron, my younger brother, grinning like fools on a family trip to the Grand Canyon.

And then, buried at the bottom, was something I hadn’t intended to bring.

My breath caught as my fingers brushed against the weathered tin. Slowly, I pulled it out, my hands trembling. The edges were dented, the lid scratched and worn from years of being shuffled between places I pretended to call home. Noah’s keepsake box.

A faint metallic tang clung to the tin, carrying with it the ghost of smoke—an echo of a night I had tried and failed to forget. The weight of the box felt heavier than it should, as though it contained not just trinkets but entire lifetimes.

I didn’t need to open it. I already knew what was inside. Faded Polaroids of us, a movie ticket stub with smudged ink, a charred scrap of fabric that had survived when so much else hadn’t.

My throat tightened as I ran my fingers along the lid, the cool metal beneath my fingertips a sharp contrast to the warmth of Mark’s presence nearby. Opening it would mean opening a door, one I had carefully barricaded for nine years.

“Jaclyn?”

Mark’s voice startled me, and I shoved the box back into the larger carton, closing the lid just as he reappeared in the doorway holding two takeout menus. His easy grin softened the lines of his face. “Help me settle a debate. Pad Thai or margarita pizza?”

“Pizza,” I said quickly, forcing a smile that barely stretched beyond my lips.

“Good choice.” He winked and disappeared back into the kitchen, humming to himself.

I exhaled shakily, the sound loud and uneven in the quiet room. My hands were still trembling as I pushed the keepsake box beneath the couch, burying it as though hiding it might somehow erase the memories it carried.

It didn’t belong here, in this pristine life Mark had so carefully helped me build.

But it still belonged to me.

---

That night, after the pizza boxes had been tossed and Mark retreated to the bedroom to call his sister, I found myself seated cross-legged on the living room floor. The city lights twinkled through the windows, casting faint, fractured patterns on the walls.

The apartment was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made my thoughts unbearably loud.

I stared at the couch, at the precise shadow that betrayed the hidden box beneath it. My fingers itched to reach for it again, to pry it open and let the past breathe for just a moment.

Instead, I reached for my phone. My mother’s name flashed on the screen, accompanied by a photo of her and my father standing side by side in their garden, smiling with the quiet pride that seemed to define them.

“Hi, Mama,” I said as I answered, bracing myself.

“Jaclyn, sweetheart,” she replied, her voice warm but brisk, every word laced with expectation. “How’s the new apartment? Did you finish unpacking everything?”

“It’s good,” I said, tucking a stray curl behind my ear. “We’re mostly settled. Just a few odds and ends left.”

“And you’re not overworking yourself, are you? You sound tired.”

“I’m fine,” I lied, injecting false brightness into my tone. “It’s just been a long day.”

Her sigh was soft but heavy, the kind that always felt like advice disguised as concern. “You’ve always been too hard on yourself. You need to remember to rest. Your new job will demand it.”

“I know, Mama.”

Her next question came slowly, deliberately. “Mark is good to you, yes?”

The words landed like a stone in my chest. It was a question she had asked countless times before, but tonight, it felt heavier.

“Yes,” I said quickly. “He’s wonderful.”

“And you are happy?”

The silence that followed stretched taut, the word hanging in the air between us.

“Yes,” I said again, softer this time. The lie tasted bitter in my mouth.

I could feel her weighing my answer, her pause deliberate. “Good,” she said finally. “Your father and I are proud of you, Jaclyn. Always.”

“Thank you, Mama,” I whispered, my voice wavering just slightly.

We exchanged a few more pleasantries before the call ended, leaving me alone with the static hum of the city and the nagging ache in my chest.

I leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling. My mother’s words reverberated in my mind. *You are happy?*

My silver watch caught the faint light, its engraving glinting like a whispered reminder: *To the one who keeps my heart ticking.*

Mark’s promise. His belief in us.

My gaze drifted back to the couch, to the barely discernible outline of the box beneath it.

The keepsake was heavier than the watch. Heavier than all of it.

Tomorrow was meant to be the beginning of something new. A new apartment. A new job. A new chapter.

But as I sat there, unease coiled around me, thick and unrelenting, like smoke from a fire I’d never truly escaped.