Fiona
The Spare Room
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She had more boxes than he expected. Not a mountain of them, not the dramatic stacks from movies, but enough to change the shape of the apartment. They were neat boxes, labeled in careful handwriting — fabrics, samples, books, winter clothes, kitchen things — and she unpacked them methodically, like someone who had moved before and expected to move again. The spare room door was open, and he could hear tape pulling, drawers opening, the soft thud of shoes being set in the closet. Every so often she would carry something down the hall, pause like she wasn’t sure where it belonged yet, then pick a place and keep going.
He stood in the kitchen longer than necessary, holding a glass of water he had already forgotten to drink, watching the unfamiliar coat hanging on the back of one of his chairs. The apartment had always been quiet in a predictable way — work papers on the table, tools in the drawer, one chair that no one used — and now there were boxes in the hallway and a second toothbrush in the bathroom and someone else moving around like this was temporarily her home. He had told her it was fine, that the room was empty anyway, that the lawyers would take their time and she shouldn’t have to wait for them to decide her life, and all of that had made perfect sense when he said it.
Now, listening to the sound of someone else unpacking their life into his spare room, he found himself staring at the coat on the chair and wondering, without quite putting it into words, what exactly he had just rearranged in his own life, and whether this was a temporary solution like he had told both of them, or the beginning of something much more complicated than he had planned for.