Here’s a short piece developed from the prompt The L Word
It sat in her throat like a stone—small, smooth, impossible to swallow. She’d feel it rise during quiet mornings when he poured her coffee without asking, or late nights when his hand found hers under the blanket without a word. The L word. Not love , exactly—that one she could manage, eventually, after enough wine or distance. No, the other L word. the l word
Leaving.