I drove to the new apartment with the heater running even though the night wasn't cold. The streets were nearly empty, and every traffic light seemed to give me too much time to think. When I carried my suitcase inside, I found the takeout bag Jake had left on the counter and a note saying he'd be free to help with the rest on Saturday. I sat on the floor beneath the window and cried in a way I hadn't since I was a teenager, quietly at first and then without trying to stop it.
Nothing about those tears made the decision less real. I missed Marissa, and I missed the version of us I had kept trying to reach. I missed the apartment that smelled like her shampoo and the coffee cups we bought together, and I missed having somebody whose familiar footsteps I knew before she came into view. I also knew that if I went back that night, the cycle would resume before either of us understood why it kept hurting us.
I woke on Friday to sunlight falling across a wall I hadn't learned yet. For a moment I thought I was late for work and reached toward the side of the bed where Marissa usually slept. My hand found empty space, and I lay still while the memory of the previous night assembled itself. The sadness had not gone anywhere, but neither had the certainty beneath it.
I made coffee in a mug I'd kept from my first apartment. The kitchen had no curtains yet, and a delivery truck outside kept reversing with a long mechanical beep that made the whole morning feel temporary. I answered two work emails, called the property manager to ask how to set up the utilities, and made a list of things I needed that didn't belong to anybody else's shared plans. At noon I drove to a discount store and bought towels, dish soap, a lamp, and a small plant I wasn't sure I could keep alive.
Marissa had sent four messages before I finished shopping. The first asked whether I was okay, the second asked where I was, and the third said she couldn't believe I'd walked out without giving us a proper chance. The fourth contained a photograph of our kitchen table with only her coffee mug on it. I stared at that picture much longer than the others because I knew exactly what it felt like to sit at that table alone.
I wrote a reply and deleted it. Then I wrote another, explaining again that we had talked many times, that the letter wasn't a substitute for conversation but the end of a long series of them. I deleted that one, too, because I recognized the urge behind it. I wanted her to agree with my decision so I wouldn't have to bear the discomfort of making it without her permission.