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At the world that suddenly feels both too big and too small at the same time.

"I want to stay," I say quietly.

"Then stay."

"But on my terms."

"Good. Tell him that."

"What if he doesn't—"

"Tamsin. He paid off fifty-seven thousand dollars in debt because he couldn't stand the thought of you being financially vulnerable. I'm pretty sure he'll agree to whatever terms you set."

I laugh.

It's shaky and breathless and completely genuine.

"Yeah. Okay."

"You good?"

"I'm getting there."

"Call me later. I want details."

"You're not getting details."

"I'm absolutely getting details."

She hangs up.

I set the phone down and just sit there for a moment, letting the morning light wash over me, feeling the weight of the decision settle into place.

I'm staying.

Not because biology demands it.

Not because I'm trapped.

Not because I don't have any other options.

I'm staying because I want to.

Because when I think about walking away from him—from this—my chest tightens with something that feels a lot like grief.

Because I'm choosing him.

On my terms.

With full agency.

With the explicit understanding that I can walk away if I need to.

I take a breath.

And I stand up, letting the thin blanket fall away.

My apartment is still cold. The radiator still doesn't work. The boxes are still stacked against the wall.