Chapter Twenty-One
Sloane
“Hey,” a familiar voice said beside me as I was buying a sandwich for lunch. “Figured I’d find you here.”
I turned to see Caleb smiling. “You were looking for me?”
“Yeah. Been meaning to talk for a while. Want to sit together?”
I looked at him, already guessing what this was about.
“Sure,” I said, eyeing the takeout box of pasta in his hands that he’d bought from another kiosk.
I grabbed the paper-wrapped sandwich the vendor handed me. Caleb turned, his eyes still on mine, and I followed him.
We crossed the cafeteria and found an empty table tucked away in the back. Taking our seats across from each other, I felt the weight of what was coming.
“How’s everything with you?” he asked gently.
“I’m good, thank you,” I replied, a little too formally.
Caleb chuckled. “Come on, Sloane. I need more than that. I’m worried about you, you know.”
I sighed. Talking about myself still wasn’t easy, but this was part of the healing process as well—learning to open up to the people I trusted. And I did trust Caleb. I always had.
“If you mean the therapy,” I said slowly, “it’s been going well. Just... sometimes I still get hit with regret for not starting sooner.”
“Just focus on everything from here on, Sloane, not the past. It’s what matters.”
I nodded, opening up the wrap of my sandwich.
“Cameron moved out of your house,” he said, his tone careful. “He’s moved back to Mom’s.”
“Yes,” I said. “He didn’t want to be alone in the apartment, he said. And besides, Harper would be with him two nights a week and every other weekend at Anita’s anyway.”
“And are you okay being alone at home?”
That question made me pause.
That first night was brutal. Sleep wouldn’t come. Fear and panic twisted in my chest, making me restless and wide awake. I found myself tiptoeing into Harper’s room, curling up beside her in her small bed, desperate for some comfort.
The night Harper stayed with him at Anita’s, and I was alone at home, was even worse. The silence pressed down on me, thick and suffocating. The walls seemed to close in. I called him—to hear his voice, the sound of his breathing—until exhaustion finally pulled me under.
Slowly, bit by bit, I started learning how to live without him.
The calls got shorter. Less frequent.
And then, just a few days ago, I did it.
I fell asleep on my own.
It was strange because I’d slept alone without him before. But ever since my breakdown, I’d clung to him more than ever. He was the one who kept me going, and I’d started leaning on that far too much. That’s when I realized I couldn’t keep living like this.
I loved him so much it bordered on madness, and it made me constantly terrified of losing him. And that kind of love wasn’t what I needed right now.
What I needed was peace.
Stability.
