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I start with his desk. Oliver is organized enough that if Juney matters, there should be some evidence of her somewhere. Something that explains why a woman I’ve never seen knows where he lives, calls him Nate and worries when he misses dinner.

The first two drawers contain stationery, receipts and university paperwork. Nothing gives me Juney. The bottom drawer is locked.

I think of Juney standing outside with her little heart and her private name for him. Then I pull the drawer hard enough that the wood cracks around the lock.

Inside are old financial records, his passport and his birth certificate. I go through all of it. There’s nothing about Juney inside. I kick the drawer shut. The broken lock catches. I kick it again, harder, and the front splits down the center. Better.

There are no photographs on the desk, so I start with the bookshelves. I begin with the books that have papers sticking out of them. Receipts. Lecture notes. An old train ticket. A restaurant receipt from eight months ago makes me stop until I see the table was for one. I drop it on the floor and take down another book. Then another.

I sweep the books onto the floor so I can reach the next row more easily. A hardback strikes the leg of a chair and lands with its cover bent backward.

There’s a wooden box on the bottom shelf. Inside are old cards and letters, and the first envelope is from his mother. The second is from someone named Marcus who apparently thinks Oliver needs to drink more. The next envelope reads Nate.

I tear it open. The card has a stupid cartoon dog on the front. Inside, someone has written:

Happy birthday, old man. Sorry I can’t be there. I owe you dinner when I get back. Love you always, J. ♡

Love you always.

No.

I tear the card in half, then tear it again through the little heart.

Oliver doesn’t get to keep a woman I don’t know tucked safely inside a box. He doesn’t get private dinners, private names or a private version of himself.

I empty the rest of the wooden box onto the carpet. Envelopes and photographs scatter between my knees. I go through every one of them, faster this time, looking for another J, another Nate, another fucking heart.

Nothing.

I throw the wooden box against the wall. One corner breaks away and the rest drops behind the chair. I sweep the next row of books from the shelf. They hit the floor hard enough to split one at the spine. I don’t care.

This apartment belongs to Nate. Nate doesn’t live here anymore.

There are photographs tucked between two of them, but none show Juney. Oliver at a graduation. Oliver with his parents. Oliver beside another man at a wedding. I recognize two colleagues from the department website and a woman I’ve watched him have coffee with three times.

I know these people. I should know Juney.

Another row of books hits the floor. By the time I return to the bedroom, I’m no longer searching individual places.

The remaining clothes come out of the dresser. The nightstand drawer hits the floor. It clips the lamp, and the ceramic base cracks against the wood. I don’t stop to pick it up.

Then I see the storage box beneath his bed. I have to lie on my stomach to reach it, which irritates me before I even discover that the plastic clasp is stuck. I pull harder. It still refuses to open.

“Don’t.” I yank it again. The clasp snaps. “Thank you.”

There are old papers inside, two sweaters and a collection of things that look as though they’ve survived several moves because Oliver couldn’t quite make himself throw them away. At the bottom is a bundle of photographs held together with an elastic band.

I sit on the floor and go through them.

Oliver younger and without glasses. Oliver in graduation robes. Oliver standing beside his parents. There are school photographs, holidays and people I don’t recognize but can probably identify if I need to.

Then I find her.

Juney is younger in the photograph, but it’s her. Her hair is longer and she’s wearing jeans and a university sweatshirt. Oliver has one arm around her shoulders.

They’re laughing.

I stare at his face.