"If he had actually been what she thought he was, she might be happy with him right now."
Dr. Levin shrugged.
"Maybe."
I stared at her.
"That's your therapeutic response?"
"Would you prefer I invent certainty?"
"No."
"Then maybe. She might have stayed. She might have discovered different problems. He might have left. They might have built a life. None of those possibilities change whether the relationship you had was healthy at the end."
I hated that answer. Then I stopped needing a different one. December became January. I found a condo in a quieter neighborhood about fifteen minutes from downtown.
It was smaller than the apartment Sarah and I had shared, but it had two bedrooms, good light, a balcony, and monthly costs I could carry without thinking about them. I toured it three times before making an offer. The real estate agent finally laughed.
"You know this isn't a leveraged buyout, right?"
"The inspection report had seventeen items."
"Fourteen were cosmetic."
"Cosmetic problems are still information."
She shook her head.
"You're consistent, I'll give you that."
I closed in February. Moving into a place I owned alone felt different from leaving the apartment. The hotel had been escape. The short-term rental had been suspension. The condo felt like choice.
I bought almost no furniture at first. A bed. A couch.
A dining table that seated four. A desk. My mother came over, walked through the nearly empty rooms, and said, "It looks like a man is being held here for questioning."
"Minimalism."
"No. Minimalism has art."
She brought a plant the following weekend. Then another. Dave gave me a framed print of a stock-market chart that had crashed spectacularly and written SARAH'S PORTFOLIO in marker beneath it. I made him take it home. By March, my life had become quieter than it had been in years.
I realized how much background anxiety I had normalized with Sarah. Every time my phone buzzed, I used to wonder whether it was a card charge, a crisis, a last-minute trip, an argument about money, or a request disguised as a decision already made. Now a notification was usually just a notification. The relief felt almost physical. My performance at work improved too, although the simple story - remove expensive girlfriend, become super employee - was not accurate.
What changed was attention. I was sleeping. I stopped checking bank alerts during meetings.
I no longer spent Sunday nights negotiating household expenses with someone who considered the discussion insulting. My boss noticed. In April, he called me into his office.
"I want you to lead the new advisory group."
I looked at him.
"Why?"
"Because you keep doing half the job already."
"That's not a promotion pitch."