october 2nd — porter & treasure
about , treasure sits with all the words left unsaid, the apology that never reached him, and the love that curdled into regret.
The laundry stayed where it was, untouched, as the days dragged into weeks. At first, Treasure told themselves they were just too tired to wash it. Then, that they were waiting until Porter came back. That was a lie, of course. Actually going ahead and doing it felt…final, like a closing a door he had already slammed behind him.
The shirt of his still lay at the top of the pile, half-slipped onto the floor. Sometimes they would pick it up, clutching the fabric until their hands ached. Sometimes they would shove it deep into the pile, burying it like a body. Either way, the shirt always found its way back into view, staring at them like a quiet accusation spilling over the mattress.
The fight replayed itself endlessly. Treasure’s voice, trembling and soft, spitting the word that had split everything open: coward.
Porter’s face when he heard it—like something inside him had cracked. He had laughed, demanded they say it again, louder, but underneath the performance there had been something raw, something that hurt.
And suddenly, Treasure found themselves at a loss of words. They had realized what they said, and the impact of their words, and their heart cracked open. The last thing they ever, ever wanted to do was hurt anyone. Let alone Porter. They hadn’t known it would be the last thing they’d ever say to him.
In the short time they had known the man, they truly grew to care for him. It could’ve been perceived as love.
At first, Treasure expected him to come back.
Every creak of the hallway boards made their heart stutter.
Every knock from a neighbor sent them rushing to the door.
They left the light on at night. They didn’t want to admit how many times they sat awake, rehearsing apologies they would never get to speak.
But as the days stretched on, their expectation sizzled down. The apartment grew heavier, quieter. Even the air seemed to lose its warmth, as though Porter had stolen it with him.
Treasure tried to go about their life. They worked, ate, slept in a mechanical sort of way. But everything reminded them of him. The hum of the refrigerator was too much like the silence after his laugh. The space on the couch where he used to sit might as well have been a crater. Even brushing their teeth became unbearable—the reflection in the mirror always seemed to ask, why didn’t you stop him? Why did you keep talking? God, do you ever stop? Can you mind your own business?
They had stared back at their reflection for hours on end, those thoughts spreading through their head like wildfire.
If they hadn’t said what they said. If they had just swallowed it, just softened, just been kinder—would he have stayed? If they had begged harder, held onto him instead of letting slip through their fingers, would the door had closed so easily behind him?
The more they taught about it, the clearer it became: it was their fault. They had pushed. They pried. They had driven him out.
Weeks later, the shirt still smelled faintly of him if Treasure pressed their face into it hard enough. That was the cruelest part. Every day, the scent faded more, and with it, their grip on him. The fear of forgetting kept them tethered to that stupid piece of cloth, as if it were the last fragile thread tying him to their world.
Those days blurred together. The pile of laundry became part of the furniture, a constant weight in the corner of the room, as natural as the couch or the table. Treasure stopped noticing it—until one day, they did.
The shirt at the top was no longer his shirt. Not really. The faint trace of him that had clung stubbornly to the fabric was gone. It smelled like dust now, like detergent, like nothing. And that was when Treasure realized: Porter wasn’t coming back.
The acceptance was small and ugly, not some cinematic revelation. It didn’t come with tears or rage, only exhaustion.
They had finally made their way to the apartment complex laundromat, and washed the clothes. A place they never thought they’d get to. Walking back into the apartment with a batch of freshly washed clothes felt so… off.
Treasure picked up the shirt and, with hands that trembled but didn’t falter, folded it. One by one, they folded everything else. Socks, jeans, the pile that had been left to rot became neat, sharp stacks.
When the last piece of laundry was put away, Treasure sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bare space where the pile had once been. It looked wrong, too clean, like something vital had been erased.
Their chest tightened. Before they could talk themself out of it, they grabbed their phone and dialed his number.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
No answer.
They tried again. And again. Each attempt was a plea unspoken, each rejection proof of what they already knew: he didn’t want to hear them. He wouldn’t forgive them. Maybe he couldn’t.
At some point, their hand slipped, and the call went to voicemail. Treasure’s breath caught, and for a long moment, they said nothing at all. Just silence, heavy and broken, before they hung up.
They tried again. This time, the words scraped their throat raw. “I didn’t mean it. I didn’t mean it, please just—” Click. Voicemail cut them off.
They called again. “I’m sorry. I’ll stop asking, I’ll stop pushing, just come back—” Click.
Again. “It’s my fault. I know it’s my fault. But please—”
Click.
Over and over, until the words blurred into sobs, until their voice cracked into nothing. Until the phone slipped from their hand and clattered to the floor.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Treasure sat in it, laundry finally done, heart still undone, staring at their phone with such intensity. “You’re such a coward.”
dont attack me. i cried too
