The Box in the Closet

Drizzle misted the window. Outside, other apartment buildings glowed faintly, smudged halos against an encroaching dusk. Emery stared out at them, leaning against her scratched kitchen counter, holding a chipped coffee mug in both hands.

Her days were becoming more and more like this lately: an uneasy rhythm of waiting. Waiting for her thoughts to loosen. Waiting for the phone to buzz with a text she wasn’t sure she wanted. Waiting to decide what to do with that box she’d stuffed in her hallway closet.

She turned the mug around in her hands, the ceramic cool against her fingers, and then set it down with a soft clink. She could hear the refrigerator humming and the occasional drip from the faucet as she moved toward the window and pressed her forehead to the glass. Below, the city churned with life. People hurried under umbrellas, cars splashed through puddles, and somewhere—everywhere—life went on. It was so reliable that way.

She noticed her reflection staring back at her in the glass: hollow cheeks, circles beneath eyes, and chapped lips curling downwards. She sighed and ran a hand through her hair, her fingers catching on a knot she was too tired to untangle. That’s when the text finally buzzed, jarring her. The name on the screen tripped her heart into a dull thud, but she opened it anyway.

Here.

This was an act of his kindness, she knew it. Still, somehow it felt… dare she admit it? Unwelcome. Even irritating.

Emery opened her apartment app, unlocked the streetside doors, and texted back: Come on up.

A few minutes later, the knock on her door arrived and she took a labored breath before opening it. On the other side stood Jules. He held a brown paper bag with a receipt stapled to the top. He lifted the bag up, wearing the same expression of cautious optimism he’d had the last few weeks.

“Thought you might need some dinner,” he said, stepping inside without waiting for an invitation. The scent of garlic and oregano wafted in after him. “How’re you holding up?”

“Fine,” Emery replied automatically, though she didn’t meet Jules’s eyes. She closed the door and followed him inside. He looked around for a moment, then flipped on the kitchen light, shadows fleeing into corners of the room. Emery squinted.

“You don’t have to say that,” he said. “Not to me.” Jules ripped the bag open and began unpacking black food containers. Emery watched his precise and deliberate movements, as if arranging takeout would solve her problems.

She shifted uncomfortably. “I don’t know what you’re hoping for. I’m… I am fine.” But her voice was even quieter this time.

Jules sighed but didn’t press further. He handed Emery a fork from her single kitchen drawer and nudged a container of pasta toward her, sitting on one of her wobbly bar stools. “Alright,” he said. “Bon appétit.”

She opened her container and picked at the food, her appetite absent. Jules shoveled several scoops of food into his mouth while she turned her fork around and around in sauce.

“Have you been to the group lately?” he asked suddenly.

“Yes.” Emery’s tone was sharp, but guilt flickered across her face. “Well, no. Not really. It’s just… I don’t think it helps.”

“It won’t help overnight,” Jules said gently. “You gotta give yourself a chance. Plus, it’s better than being alone with… you know.”

Emery stiffened, but Jules took it a step further.

“Have you opened the box in your closet?” he asked.

Emery glared at her uneaten pasta. “No.”

He nodded and changed the subject. He talked about work, his neighborhood’s new restaurant, and the latest album of an artist Emery used to love. She tried to keep up with him, but her responses were distant. The longer he talked, the more she drifted away, stalled inside her own thoughts. She was grappling for control over herself—over her body, mind, and life—but she was losing. She could feel it.

When Jules finally left, her shoulders sagged, tension draining away while she faced the emptiness around her. The room felt larger now, the silence wide and unyielding.

That night, sleep eluded her. She lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the weight of her thoughts pressing down. She felt mixed waves of yearning and defeat. Eagerness and fear. It wasn’t always like this, she reminded herself. She’d been in control of her life once.

But control was a slippery thing, and lately, it felt like she was clawing at sand. Lately, the sand had been swallowing her.

She rose before dawn, the city cloaked in a muted blue-gray. Wrapping herself in a blanket, she paced her living room. She moved from the window to the kitchen counter and back again, over and over. After a while, she found herself standing still, her gaze settled on the closet door in her hallway. Her chest tightened. She hadn’t touched it in days. But she knew the box was there, humming with temptation.

Suddenly, she was in front of her closet, swinging the door open. She stared at the box. Memories flickered, her entire life playing across her mind in short bits and pieces, and she told herself not to touch it. But then the box felt heavy in her hand and she realized she was carrying it to the center of her living room.

Her mind raced as the box loomed larger in her vision. It felt alive, breathing with her anxiety, feeding on her reluctance. She knelt beside it, reached out for the lid, hesitated, then pulled her hand back. Minutes ticked by in the sound of raindrops beating the window.

She wanted to open it.

But she’d promised herself she wouldn’t...

Her phone buzzed, and she reached for it, grateful for a distraction. A text from Jules: Thinking of you. Let me know if you need anything today.

Emery hesitated, but then her fingers moved on their own: I need help. I can’t do this alone anymore.

The words felt foreign, like they belonged to someone braver, but she hit send before she could change her mind.

Jules responded almost immediately: Be there in 10.

When he arrived, he let himself in without hesitation, his gaze immediately landing on the box in the center of the living room. He didn’t flinch, just nodded, as if he had suspected this all along. He came up to her, his presence steadying.

“That it?” he asked softly.

Emery nodded, shame pooling in her chest.

“Is that all of it?” he asked.

She nodded again.

Jules knelt beside her. “Do you want to open it…?”

“No,” Emery whispered. “I want to get rid of it.”

“I know, Em,” he whispered. “But it doesn’t really work like that. You know it doesn’t.” She saw tears in his eyes. They pooled up so quickly that she knew it was real. This was real.

Suddenly, this was so painfully, terrifyingly, horrifically real. She had to open the box. Why had she waited so long?

“Come on,” Jules said. His voice was steady even as he brushed a tear off his cheek with the back of his hand. “Let’s do it together.”

Emery hesitated, her hands gripping the edges of the lid beside Jules’s hands. This was it—the moment she’d been avoiding. A decision. A choice to move forward. A step to let go of all the things she couldn’t control and ride the waves life sent her way.

They lifted the lid together and the contents stared up at her, a mess of truths she’d buried. The biopsy results lay on top, stark in their clinical language. Her hands trembled as she picked it up and read aloud: “Invasive adeno… adenocarcinoma, Grade 3. Lower left lung lobe…” She stopped, the words slicing through the quiet. Her breath hitched.

Jules grabbed her hand and squeezed. “Let’s focus on treatments,” he said. “Let’s look at that first.”

“I’m scared it’s too late,” she whispered. “I’m scared I can’t do this.”

He wrapped an arm around her shoulder. “One step at a time, Em.”

The rain began to fall harder, battering the window. Together, they sorted through the box, discarding her unopened appointment reminders and organizing the other confusing treatment documents on the floor, trying to make sense of it.

While it was certainly wretched, Emery felt a fragile hope take root. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to begin.