Wishlist

He bought me a book from my Amazon wishlist. Three months after we broke up.

It arrived on a Wednesday. Plain packaging, no note, my name on the label. I almost didn't open it. I'd given up expecting surprises from anyone, especially him.

His name was Sam. A year and a bit. Slow burn, soft kisses, Sunday mornings reading in bed. He was the guy who dog-eared pages, which I hated, and I was the girl who highlighted everything, which he teased me about.

We split on a quiet afternoon. No yelling. He said, "I don't think I'm the person you need." I said, "That's not for you to decide." He left anyway.

The book was one I'd saved ages ago. A long, sad novel about two people missing each other across decades. I'd added it to my wishlist and forgotten.

I opened it at the table. Inside the front cover, in pencil, tiny writing.

"Page 40: you'd hate this character. Page 112: you'd cry. Page 203: you'd read this line out loud to me."

I flipped through. Margins full of notes. Little arrows, small underlines. Half-jokes. "You'd highlight this entire page." "I can hear you saying 'oh my god' here."

He'd read it as if I were next to him.

At the very end, on the last blank page, one more line.

"It ends the way we should've. I thought you'd want to know."

I still haven't read the last chapter.

I'm scared he's right.