The third morning, I toured the studio. It occupied the upper floor of a renovated warehouse near the edge of downtown, with exposed brick, a narrow kitchen, and a tall window overlooking the side wall of another building. The agent apologized for the view, but I found the steady movement of light along the brick unexpectedly soothing. The building had secure entry, a small shared laundry room, and a hallway that smelled faintly of fresh paint. I could afford it without relying on anyone else's income, provided I budgeted carefully and didn't pretend I could replace our shared life with expensive new furniture overnight.
I walked the empty room while the agent explained the deposit and the parking situation. There was enough space for a bed, a desk, and the small armchair my grandfather had given me after I graduated, though I would have to collect it from the old apartment. The kitchen was too small for two people to cook comfortably, and the bathroom had a narrow medicine cabinet with chipped paint inside. None of those flaws seemed especially important. When the agent asked whether I wanted to apply, I heard myself say yes before I could begin comparing the studio with everything I had lost.
I filled out the application in the car, checking each number twice, then drove to Daniel's house for dinner. His wife had made more pasta than their family could eat, and they did not turn my arrival into an occasion requiring a speech. Their daughter was learning to walk and used my knee as a piece of furniture while Daniel asked about work. I could feel myself relax into the ordinary noise of a home that belonged to people who were glad to see me. On the drive back to the hotel, I cried for the first time since the breakup, quietly and without any particular thought that explained why.
The crying surprised me more than the moment of relief after I'd left. I had told myself I was calm, resolved, even indifferent, and part of that had been true at the instant I needed to make a decision. But three years of routines, hopes, arguments, and private jokes did not disappear because I'd zipped one bag. I missed things I knew were not coming back, and I missed things that had never worked quite the way I believed they had. I let the grief happen without calling Chloe, because the feeling did not require her to fix it.
On Sunday afternoon, I received approval for the studio and arranged a move-in date. I signed what I needed to sign, kept copies of the documents, and sent a concise email to Chloe about the remaining items and the lease amendment, with Denise copied where appropriate. I didn't discuss the breakup in that email or ask what she had done with the evening after I left. She did not respond before bedtime, and I didn't sit waiting for the reply. I closed the laptop, turned off the light, and tried to sleep in a room that still had no memories of me.