I find myself packing his things with absurd care and attention. Smoothing his jeans after folding and then refolding, stacking his books more neatly than they’ve ever been with the bookmark’s tassel settled just so, untangling his necklaces and wrapping them through his rings so he could not possibly lose them. Then, I move it all out into the hallway like airing dirty laundry so he does not have to ransack my half-empty drawers and sparse shelves to find them, then cram them all into a too-small, ill-fitting box. I keep asking myself why I am doing this. Why am I doing this to myself? And I find that it’s not because I’m regretful. It’s not because I’ll miss him, nor is it because I’m nostalgic for what has been. I find it’s because I’m hoping I can set him straight, place him on the correct foot before he walks out the door. I’m hoping next time he’ll do it right.