Her sadness turned suddenly sharp. She told me I would never find anybody who loved me the way she did, and for a second she looked exactly as she had in the bedroom on Sunday. I had an answer ready before she finished, but I made myself say it without trying to hurt her. "I hope I find a different kind of love," I told her. "One where nobody has to be frightened into proving it."
She stood against the doorframe, crying into her sleeve. I felt the old instinct to invite her inside, make tea, and tell her everything would be all right, and the force of that instinct frightened me. I knew how to comfort Sarah better than I knew how to protect myself from her. For once, I chose not to confuse the two things.
"Goodbye, Sarah," I said.
I closed the door gently and stood with my hand on the lock while her crying continued in the hallway. I did not feel victorious. I felt weak, sad, and strangely exposed, as if the boundary I had finally set were a wall made of glass. Eventually her footsteps moved away toward the stairs.
I poured a glass of water and sat at my little kitchen table. It had only one chair, because I had not found a second one I liked or could afford. I stared at the clear surface of the water until my breathing steadied. For the first time in four years, I was sitting in a home where I did not have to guess what mood someone else would bring through the door.
The first week alone was quieter than I expected, and not entirely in a good way. I had spent so long arranging my day around Sarah's schedule that the absence of her plans left holes in mine. On Thursday evening I found myself reaching for my phone to ask whether she would be home for dinner, and it took an embarrassing moment to remember that there was no longer anyone to ask. I stood in the grocery store beside a display of tomatoes, staring at a shopping list written for two people.
I bought half as much food as usual and still cooked too much. I made rice and chicken on Friday, reheated it on Saturday, and threw the remainder away on Sunday when I finally admitted there was no point saving a third portion. These were small inconveniences, nothing that deserved the word heartbreak, but they kept arriving like reminders from a life that had not yet learned I was gone. I found that I could endure a lonely evening more easily than the automatic reach for a second plate.
My brother came by on Saturday with a borrowed drill and helped me mount the curtains. He stood on a chair while I steadied it and complained that the wall studs were in impossible places. When we finished, we walked to a sandwich shop around the corner and ate outside under an umbrella that barely shaded the table. He asked whether I had heard from Sarah, and I told him I had blocked her number after the visit.