The saddest thing she owned was a promise ring.
Old and broken, it was stupid even when she received it; meant to quiet building doubts from someone who seemed intent on blinding her with shiny things and empty promises.
It had a heart dangling from it with a tiny ruby, it was tacky and cheap, but she said she loved it anyway because she loved him.
She knew he didn’t actually mean to give it to her, it was too small, and even just looking at her hand you could tell a ring like that would barely fit. Maybe it belonged to someone else, a recycled token of long-broken affection with a tiny ruby and a dangling heart; how appropriate.
The thing never really got lost, even though she never meant to keep it. It was one of those things that would show up when she was cleaning out old receipts or attempting to create order in small spaces. And the more she looked at it, the sillier the little trinket seemed. The body of the ring was elastic, so that it pinched her too-big finger every time she tried to put it on. Why did she ever say she loved such a thing?
Perhaps it is poetic justice, that now she thinks of him this way; cheap and unworthy of her skin.