"Well, shit." She considered this development.
"That's either the most mature response ever or the most calculated."
"What do you mean?"
"Think about it. What better way to prove he's not the controlling monster you fear than by respecting your autonomy above his own desires?" She sipped her wine thoughtfully. "Either way, it's not the reaction you expected."
"No." I pulled the blanket around me, suddenly cold despite the warmth of the apartment. "I expected... I don't know. Something. Argument. Persuasion. Passion."
"You wanted him to fight for you," she translated with uncomfortable accuracy. "To prove that what you were giving up mattered enough to fight for."
I couldn't deny it. "Pathetic, right? I end things, then get upset when he respects my decision."
"Human," she corrected gently. "Completely, messily human."
We drank in silence for a moment, the weight of the evening settling around us like dust after an explosion.
"Are you really going to New York?" she finally asked.
"I don't know." The admission felt like surrender. "It makes sense. Clean break. Fresh start. Career advancement."
"But?"
"But the thought of never seeing him again makes me physically ill." I pressed my hand against my sternum, where the ache had taken permanent residence.
"Like I can't breathe properly."
"Then why end it?" The question was simple, direct, pure Zoe.
"Because loving him might destroy me," I whispered, the truth finally emerging.
"Not because of Miles or work or age or any external factor. But because I've never felt like this—never needed someone this way. Never been so willing to risk everything that matters for another person."
"And that scares the shit out of you."
"Terrifies me," I confirmed. "I built my entire identity around not needing anyone. Around being self-sufficient. Independent. Now suddenly I'm contemplating professional suicide and family complications and ethical nightmares because I can't imagine my life without him in it."
"That's not weakness, Sav." She squeezed my hand.
"That's courage. Risking safety for possibility always is."
"It doesn't feel like courage. It feels like drowning."
"Maybe courage always does, a little bit." She topped off our glasses. "So what now? Seriously, consider the New York job? Pretend the last few months never happened?"
"That's the plan." I sounded unconvincing even to my own ears.
"Uh-huh." Her skepticism was palpable. "And when that doesn't work? When you wake up in a different city, still feeling exactly what you're feeling now?"
"Then I'll deal with it then." I reached for the remote, desperate to end this line of questioning. "Movie time? I need mindless distraction."
We settled into the familiar comfort of friendship and wine, the predictable romantic plots unfolding on screen providing temporary escape from the chaos of my actual love life.
By the time Zoe left around midnight, I'd achieved a sort of numb acceptance—not peace, exactly, but resignation to the path I'd chosen.
Sleep eluded me, of course.
I lay awake, replaying Lucas's quiet acceptance of my decision, searching for hidden meanings, alternative interpretations, anything that might make sense of the hollow ache in my chest.
