“No.”
“She made a series of decisions.”
“Mark, come on.”
“She answered an ex.”
“Kept it from me.”
Canceled plans.”
Got dressed for a private meeting.”
Explicitly excluded me.”
Then minimized it.”
Then called me controlling.”
“Then insulted me when I left.”
“That isn’t one accidental sentence.”
Sarah went quiet.
Finally she said:
“She’s admitted that.”
“Good.”
“So doesn’t she deserve some credit?”
“For admitting it?”
“Yes.”
“She deserves credit for growing.”
“That doesn’t create an obligation for me to return.”
Sarah exhaled sharply.
“A real man would at least hear her out.”
There it was.
The phrase.
Maybe she regretted it immediately.
I did not give her time to repair it.
“Sarah.”
“What?”
“Don’t contact me again.”
“Mark—”
“This isn’t your relationship.”
“She asked me because you’ve blocked her everywhere.”
“That should have told you something.”
“You’re being cruel.”
“No.”
“I’m maintaining a boundary.”
“She is your friend.”
“Help her through the breakup.”
“But stop trying to reverse it for her.”
I ended the call.
Then blocked the number.
The next phase of my life was not dramatic enough for the version of the story people prefer telling.
I did not instantly become wealthy.
I did not meet a model at a grocery store.
I did not wake up one morning with perfect abs and a sports car.
I went to work.
I moved.
I signed a lease on a one-bedroom apartment on the north side of the city, farther from downtown and fifteen minutes closer to my office.
The building was older.
The kitchen smaller.
The bedroom window faced a brick wall if you stood too far to the left.
I loved it.
Because every object inside belonged to the life I was choosing after Chloe.
Mike helped carry furniture.
Leo arrived twenty minutes late holding a plant.
“What is that?”
“Housewarming gift.”
“It’s half dead.”
“It reflects resilience.”
“It reflects neglect.”
“Same thing.”
We ordered pizza.
Sat on the floor because my couch had not arrived.
Talked about everything except Chloe for almost two hours.
Then Leo finally asked:
“You okay?”
I looked around the mostly empty apartment.
“Yes.”
It was the first time the answer was almost entirely true.
There were bad nights.
I am not going to pretend otherwise.
The breakup had happened quickly.
My attachment did not disappear at the same speed.
I missed her laugh.
Her hand on my chest when she slept.
The way she said my name when she was asking me to fix something she could absolutely fix herself.
I missed having someone to text when something stupid happened at work.
I missed the shared shorthand accumulated over almost four years.
Sometimes I picked up my phone before remembering.
Sometimes I dreamed we were still together.
Once I woke at three in the morning convinced I had made a terrible mistake.