Lunette stared at the suitcase on their bed. Filled to the brim with memories stuffed haphazardly in the heat of the moment. A polka dotted bra hung loosely from the side, but Lunette’s modesty burned out far too long ago. She trailed her fingers along the zip line seams, and her mind drifted to a time when she and Sam still smiled.

She thought of their first date—a terrible movie in a crowded theater; laughing afterwards in the quiet fog of the bayside. They drank an old water bottle found in the back seat, and sank their legs into the water. She remembered their first time. And despite the church’s warnings, their bodies fit perfectly. Locks and keys didn't matter as they melded into one.

But those days are gone, slipped away like a forgotten relic. Lunette’s hands left the suit case. Her fingertips traced the scratches on her arms—remnants of angry nights and sweaty sheets. There are even a few on her left hip, still fresh. The only thing that held them together, the marks of their dying love, would eventually fade in time. Perhaps heal, but never forgotten.

The fights and bitter words still clung in the air, nearly choking her. Love was all the same in the end, she thought. She read all the books. Two girls, despite the adversities, fall in love and challenge the world. But those romance books are just like their sisters sitting on the shelf next to them. Her life wasn’t like the books. It was something better. It was real, the good and bad.

Lunette finally closed the suitcase, and chunked it out the window. It thudded on the concrete, the first real noise of the morning. And it was beautiful.