“I always keep a little souvenir from my dates,” Darren said, sipping his beer like he hadn’t just said something insane.

I laughed. “What, like a napkin or something?”

“Nah. Something more personal.” He leaned back, eyes half-lidded. “A part of them, you could say.”

I waited for the punchline. None came.

Later that night, I crashed at his place; long drive, too many drinks. He was already asleep when I wandered into the spare room. That’s when I saw it.

A wall lined with neat little glass boxes, each with a tag, names, dates. Inside? Not keepsakes. Not photos.

Teeth. A piece of a jaw. One held a single, shriveled finger.

My stomach flipped. I stumbled back, heart slamming against my ribs.

Behind me, I heard his voice, low and calm.

“I knew you’d find it eventually. That’s why I never take souvenirs from friends…”
A beat.

“…until they stop being friends.”