Kept

Some people leave, and the space they take up doesn't go with them. It stays. It's the empty chair, the number you haven't deleted, the story you still tell in the present tense.

This ring is a small open oval — the shape of a locket, the shape of a photograph — set on a slim band and left deliberately empty. There is no stone, no picture, no engraving. Nothing in it but the space, and the space is the point. You're the only one who knows who it's for.

Wear Kept for the mother whose voice you can still hear. For the husband whose side of the bed you haven't moved into. For the friend who knew you at nineteen. For anyone who was here for a chapter and is still, somehow, in all the ones since.

Stack it with the rest — this is the ring that makes sure they're in the story too.