I am on a beach. It is the middle of the night. Even though it is cold and windy, I am warm because of the fire I have built before me.

I am alone, but not really, because memories of him litter the sand at my feet. To my right is a pile of his clothes. In my pocket is the cocktail napkin where he first wrote down his number. And in my hands are pictures.

I flip through them and watch the disaster of us unfold in a receding order. Us in Greece, seemingly happy, on white beaches that all look exactly the same. Us at a wedding, a music festival. The smiles grow wider. I flip all the way back to the first glimpse of us, back to when I was still imagining what we could have been. Back to some plane, going somewhere, back to the day we first met. I look at his sideways grin, my eyes so full of wonder at the sight of him, the way our hands both lie on the armrest—gingerly, as if we are not sure if the space we occupy can house us both.

What if I hadn’t been on some plane, going somewhere? What if he hadn’t sauntered on board and sat next to me? Why did fate have to tempt us both?

I have planned a speech. A long, eloquent goodbye to the man who both helped create and then destroy me. But, standing here, words no longer seem to justify the love-turned-rage that threatens to consume me.

In a rush, as if the memories are burning my skin, I throw the stack of photographs into the fire. I watch the celluloid ripple like splotchy skin. It cackles like all the laughter that has long since drowned out. I think I see his face in the flames, but then I blink and he is gone.

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JULIANNE CAREW is a fiction editor for The East Jasmine Review as well as a Pushcart Prize nominated author. She lives in the Los Angeles area, but travels all over the world collecting stories. Her work is featured in Literally Stories, 805 Literary Magazine, Thing, Bewildering Stories, and numerous anthologies.