Emily stared.
I could see she had expected resistance.
Maybe begging.
Maybe promises.
Maybe another sacrifice.
“You don’t care?”
“That isn’t what this means.”
“It kind of is.”
“What would you prefer?”
“I don’t know.”
“Exactly.”
She stood.
“I’ll stay at Marissa’s tonight.”
“Fine.”
“Give you time to think.”
“I’ve done a lot of thinking.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing you need to worry about tonight.”
Emily grabbed her purse.
At the door she turned.
“You’ll regret this when you realize nobody else is going to put up with your boring routine.”
I looked at her.
“Maybe.”
She slammed the door.
For ten minutes, I sat in complete silence.
Then I went onto the balcony.
City lights.
Traffic below.
The chair beside mine empty.
I poured one drink.
Not to celebrate.
To sit with the fact that four years had just ended.
Part of me wanted to call her.
I wanted to explain Amsterdam.
I wanted the satisfaction of saying:
Actually, Emily, I am leaving.
Actually, the boring man you mocked is about to move across an ocean.
Actually, you did not reject a stagnant life. You rejected someone whose life you kept asking him to postpone.
I wanted to watch that realization hit.
I did not call.
Because if I announced Amsterdam to prove something, I would still be making the move about her.
Instead, I texted my director.
Move is on. Wrapping up here.
He replied:
Welcome to your next life.
Then I blocked Emily’s number.
Not permanently at first.
I told myself forty-eight hours.
Space.
Protection.
The next morning, I packed the rest of her belongings that remained in my apartment.
Carefully.
Clothes.
Books.
Skincare.
Shoes.
A framed photograph of her and her sister.
Nothing broken.
Nothing thrown away.
I texted Marissa before blocking her too.
Emily’s things are boxed. Please arrange pickup this weekend. I won’t be there.
Marissa replied:
Are you okay?
Eventually.
That Saturday, Emily’s belongings disappeared.
Afterward, the apartment looked painfully large.
I cried that night.
I mention that because stories like this often make men sound like machines.
Quietly accepting a job.
Packing boxes.
Moving overseas.
No.
I was devastated.
I had chosen correctly and still felt terrible.
Those things can exist together.
For several nights, I slept badly.
I questioned myself.
What if Jake truly was only a friend?
What if I was too jealous?
What if Amsterdam became lonely?
What if I was throwing away a four-year relationship because I refused to adapt?
Then I would remember the phrase:
Mostly platonic.
Or:
Whatever.
Or:
I’m not cutting off my ex because you’re insecure.
And I would understand again that Amsterdam was not the cause.
The relationship had already become a place where my concerns mattered only after they were translated into flaws.
Two days after the breakup, Emily contacted me through Marissa’s phone.
Hey. It’s M. My phone is weird. Can we talk? I didn’t mean for things to end like that.
I did not reply.
Then email.
Alex, come on. This is childish. We should meet and sort things out like adults.
Nothing.
Then:
I’m not saying we need to get back together. I just think four years deserves a conversation.
That almost worked.