Part 1Your First Love Can Keep You

After Declan secretly drove Marissa home for what felt like the hundredth time, I was done.

A bone-deep, marrow-sucking exhaustion washed over me. I told him it was over.

He buried his face in his hands, playing the tortured victim.

"Just because I gave her a ride?"

"What exactly do I have to do for you to be satisfied, Paige?"

"We’re in the same department. It’s a professional requirement. I can’t just cut her out of my life."

I stared at the tube of lip gloss tucked beneath the passenger seat. A harsh, hollow laugh scraped its way up my throat.

"Is it because she’s a colleague that you can't cut her off?" I asked softly. "Or is it because she was your first love?"

* * *

I was so incredibly tired.

Maybe this psychological fatigue had been festering since the day Declan brought the wrong bag home.

Declan owned a faded, charcoal-gray canvas messenger bag that he’d lugged around for over a decade. He claimed it was a relic from his high school debate team—sturdy, utilitarian, indestructible. From high school to undergrad, through his PhD, and straight into his tenure-track position at the university, he had a habit of stuffing it with lecture notes and grant proposals.

We had been together for seven years. I knew the geography of Declan’s life like the back of my hand. That included the frayed edges of that canvas bag.

So, the evening he tossed it onto the entryway bench, the smudge on the strap caught my eye immediately.

"When did you get nail polish on your bag?"

The sound of running water from the bathroom made his voice sound fragmented, distant. "Huh? What do you mean?"

I held up the strap, pointing to a tiny, dark smear catching the hall light. "Look. It’s black, but it’s got glitter in it. You only see it when the light hits it."

He took the bag, angling it under the pendant light. He unzipped the main compartment, peeked inside, and let out a heavy, exasperated sigh.

"I see. This is Marissa’s bag. She must have grabbed mine by mistake."

"Marissa?"

Declan didn't miss a beat. "The new adjunct in our department. We actually went to high school together."

I nodded, piecing it together. "So she has the same debate team bag."

At the time, I thought it was just a cute coincidence, a shared piece of alumni nostalgia.

I wouldn't find out until much later that fifteen years ago, they had swapped these exact bags by mistake. That the hazy, intoxicating rush of their teenage romance had sparked from that very mix-up.

Sturdy. Built to withstand the test of time.

Not just the canvas bags. But the unresolved, tragic romance of the girl who got away.