Teeth

The night Sylva left me, one of my teeth came loose. 

Not from a punch or fall. Just quietly, gently, as if my body understood something before I did. I worked it out with my tongue for hours until it finally dropped onto the floor with a soft click. I wrapped it in tissue and placed it in my bedside drawer. 

I thought it might mean something. A sign. A shedding. The start of becoming someone she could still love. 

She never said why she ended it. Not directly. Just stood in the doorway, eyes red, voice flat: “I can’t do this anymore.” 

As if what we had was a fault in her. As if I had asked for that. As if loving her was something shameful she had to repent for. 

I knew about her family. The hymns. The prayers before every meal. But that couldn't be it. How could something as small as fear outweigh something as big as us? 

I decided the problem was me. That I’d been too much. Or not enough. That had to be it. 

Ten years later, I live in a room that smells like dust and old paper. I have no friends and no husband, no one besides the plants I water when I remember. I dream of nothing. Not until the tooth came. 

Wrapped in wax paper. Slick with dried blood. 

I stared at it for a while. Then set it beside the one I’d kept. The first. They looked good together. I forgot about it until the third one arrived. That was the week Sylva called. Her voice was cautious, like it had something to lose. 

“I’ve been getting these packages,” she said. “They have teeth in them. Human teeth.” My breath caught. “Me too.” 

A pause. “You – have you told anyone?”

I lied. “I thought it was a prank.” 

She sent me pictures. They were the same. Same wax paper. Same ink-smudged notes – I was perfect once. 

We started talking more after that. 

She told me about her husband. The kids. The church events. Her voice softened when she talked about her garden. She always loved flowers. Beautiful, soft, but easy to break with a quick tug of their stem. Just like her. 

She had theories about who was behind everything. A serial killer in her area, known for targeting women our age. A creep from our old school. Some random psychopath who got a kick out of seeing us scared. 

I asked her why she called me instead of the police. 

She hesitated. 

“The town has fun little labels for me now that I’m apparently unhappy with my marriage. It’s just…I don’t need to be called crazy on top of cold.” 

I didn’t respond. 

She continued, “Oh, and don’t tell anyone either if you can help it. If it ends up getting to the authorities, you’ll have to bring up my name, and…yeah.” 

She finally asked me what I was up to. 

I told her I didn’t really leave the house anymore. 

“I can tell. You don’t sound like yourself,” she said. 

“I don’t think I kept her,” I replied. 

Some nights she swore she dreamed of someone on her porch. A person with missing teeth, barefoot, watching from the window. 

She asked if I saw the same when I slept.

I told her I didn’t sleep at all. 

On the seventh week, we both received a tooth on the same day. Hers had something carved into the enamel – S. Mine had nothing. 

She called at midnight. 

“I’m scared,” she whispered. “I think whoever’s doing this wants me to remember something I’ve tried to forget.” 

I didn’t ask what. 

She began crying. “You don’t understand. I was going to stay. I was going to choose you.” I touched the drawer where I’d kept the teeth all, now full. 

They weren’t there. 

I went to her house the next night. 

Her porch light flickered like it was holding its breath. 

I left the package on the step. Her childhood tooth, wrapped in the same wax paper, still faintly marked with the name her mother used to call her. 

She opened the door before I could walk away. 

We stood in the rain like that, staring. 

She didn’t ask how I got her tooth. 

She didn’t ask how many were mine. 

Her eyes dropped to my smile. I watched her flinch. 

It must’ve looked strange – pink gums where a person used to be. A mouth full of wanting and no way to say it right. 

“I thought if I made enough room,” I said softly, “you’d find a way back in.” She didn’t answer.

I took a step closer, smiling. And closer still.