I wave Kyle off at the door and pad back into my house. It feels so empty without him. Maybe it’s because this is the last night we won’t officially be living together, but it’s cold and I shiver. Wrapping my arms around myself, I huddle back inside and push the unsettling emptiness aside, preferring to run upstairs and begin my side of the chores.

I must make space for him to move in.

Now, where to start? I haven’t given the process much thought, but without thinking, I automatically pad to the bedroom.

It didn’t seem like a big job when we discussed it. But now, well. I don’t know where to start. I’m staring at the color coordinated racks filled with the huge array of items. And I need these. I turn up to a million and one different social engagements, and I need the clothing to fit in. It’s all part of living under public scrutiny. I realize creating space isn’t going to be a simple de-cluttering exercise that can be done in a few hours.

I look around, wondering where to start. I try to fathom the most sensible option and then when I can’t settle on one, move to the spare room next door. Hovering in the doorway I think this could be the solution. If I make this a dressing room for Kyle, he’ll have his own space.

Perfect.

I open the closet nearest the entrance and brush my palms down my sweats, ready to start.

The first to move is my ski gear. I drag it out of the wardrobe, hang it over my arm and lug it into the third bedroom. I don’t need to find a home for it right now; laying it on the bed will be fine.

Music will be a great addition to my efforts, so I pull my phone out of my pocket and connect it to the speakers that run throughout the stone walls. The vibes of my house music playlist rings out and my mood is instantly lifted. This isn’t a job. It’s a step forward. I’m rearranging all of this junk so the man I love can turn this brick and mortar dwelling into a home.

Jogging back for round two with a renewed vigor, I pull a box from its base. Opening it, expecting to find old shoes that can be sold for charity, I’m stabbed through the center of my heart.

Noah.

Our smiling eleven-year-old faces beam up at me from the faded glossy paper. I’m holding a trophy in one hand; my other arm is wrapped over his shoulder.

“What happened to you?” I crumple against the bed, running my thumb over the innocence of our smiles. “Why did you hate me so much?”

Pain I’ve not allowed myself to touch until now rips through my ribcage, splitting it down the center and exposing my heart. My eyes well, fat tears threatening to overflow and ruin the excitement of this moment.

“Why are you still intent on hurting me, Noah?”

I’m about to rip the photo up and toss it I don’t know where, but something stops me. A knowledge that if I throw this piece of my life away, I’ll be disposing with it a huge part of my history and of who I am.

I lay the thick paper back in the box, ignoring the picture below of my mom when she was too young to know how our poor lives would change because of her devotion to me and my happiness. Instead, I plant the lid firmly back on top and deposit it in the bottom of the wardrobe in room number three.

Maybe one day I’ll be ready to look through these again, but that time isn’t now.

It’s pointless cleaning this up until I see what Kyle has to bring with him. We can do it together when we know what space needs to be cleared. I’ll start on the bathroom cupboards instead. Must hide that acne cream.