My condo.
My bills.
My life.
I feel it all at once, heavy and real and terrifying.
And the worst part?
I haven’t saved anything to soften the fall.
Because I’ve been wining and dining her. Trips. Dinners. Weekends. Little surprises that didn’t feel little at the time.
For the first time in my adult life, I’m carrying a balance on my credit card I can’t pay off in full.
That realization hits harder than Jim’s words ever could.
“Sage,” I say finally, voice low, controlled with effort. “I need you to calm down.”
“I am calm,” she snaps.
“You’re not,” I say. “And I can’t do this right now.”
Her breathing is loud in my ear.
“So you’re choosing work over me,” she says.
I close my eyes.
“I’m choosing survival,” I say quietly. “If I lose this job, everything falls apart.”
There’s a pause. Then, softer—but no less intense—“You promised me you wouldn’t disappear.”
“I’m not disappearing,” I say. “I’m trying to hold everything together.”
Silence again.
When she speaks, her voice is sweet now. Almost fragile.
“I just miss you,” she says. “I just want to be with you.”
My anger drains, leaving only exhaustion.
“I know,” I say. “I know.”
We hang up without resolving anything.
I sit there long after, phone in my hand, the office dimming as the sun slides down behind the buildings.
Work is imploding.
My relationship is on life support just waiting for me to pull the plug.
My finances are stretched thinner than I realized.
And standing there, tie loosened, jaw clenched, I finally admit the thought I’ve been dodging for weeks:
And I don’t know which part of my life is about to blow first.
