Walking away felt like relief.
And also like grief.
Both at once.
I didn’t go straight to bed.
I went home and started packing like it was a job—something physical I could complete without thinking too hard. Flannel first. Heavy ones. The kind that smelled faintly like sawdust even when they were clean. Jeans. Old work boots I hadn’t worn in years, scuffed and honest and broken in the right places. They felt like armor compared to the dress shoes lined up neatly by the door.
The condo felt hollow without her, which made no sense at all. I finally had peace—no shouting, no tension humming undermy skin—but every room still held the outline of something that had burned hot and fast and left its mark anyway.
I reached into the back of the closet, shoving aside coats I never wore anymore, and that’s when I saw it.
The guitar.
Way in the back. Leaning like it had been waiting.
My mom bought it for me when I was seventeen—off some guy she worked with at the sub shop who needed cash fast. It wasn’t fancy. It wasn’t even that good. But it was mine. The first thing that ever felt like it belonged tomeand not the life I’d been handed.
My throat closed.
Fresh tears blurred my vision before I could stop them.
It was like touching a version of myself I’d misplaced. The kid who fixed things. The kid who hid inside music because the world was loud and unpredictable and cruel. The kid who hadn’t known how to want more yet.
I pulled it free and set it carefully beside my bags.
That was coming with me too.
There was no point grocery shopping. I wouldn’t be here long enough to matter. I thumbed through takeout menus instead, half-listening to the quiet, half-expecting—still—some knock at the door. Some sound. Some sign.
Nothing.
Then my phone buzzed.
Email.
My stomach dropped.
Sage.
My fingers went cold, started shaking like they’d forgotten how to work.
“How did you—” I muttered out loud, pacing the length of the apartment. “How did you even know?”
I hadn’t heard from her. Not really. And yet I’d been looking for her everywhere—in reflections, in doorways, in the silence between breaths. Half-expecting her to show up. Half-dreading it.
But she hadn’t.
Which somehow made this worse.
“I can’t do this,” I said to the empty room. “Not right now.”
I dragged a hand through my hair, heart pounding.
“I have a plan,” I told myself. “A good one. Tony. The mountains. Fresh air. Real work.”
I grabbed my jacket and left on foot before I could overthink it, walking until the city noise dulled and my chest loosened enough to breathe. Ordered Chinese. Carried it home in the cold. Ate straight from the carton at the counter.
