I thought about leaving while he was away. Ghosting him.
But after three years together, I feel like I owe him… and myself… some kind of closure. It’s not that I don’t care about Sean. I love the man heusedto be. But I’m not in love with him anymore. This relationship is killing me. And I want to live.
The porch light flickers above me, casting sharp shadows across the chipped wooden steps. I pause with my hand on the door, heart pounding so loud I’m afraid he might hear it from inside.
The door creaks open with that familiar groan I used to find comforting. Now it sounds like a warning.
Gizmo greets me with ameow, rubbing her nose against my legs. I scoop her up, scratching the soft brown-and-white fur on her belly. She always reminded me of the creature from Gremlins—hence the name.
I walk inside our small house, and I can smell the scent of beer and the faint, clinging tang of smoke in the walls that no amount of open windows ever really clears.
My favourite candle is burnt out on the kitchen bench. The vanilla and cedarwood scent has been long buried under the weight of everything else.
The air feels thick—humid with unspoken words.
My lungs work hard to breathe, like the house itself is trying to keep me from leaving.
Everything is dim except for the television’s glow, flickering across the living room like a heartbeat. Empty bottles litter the coffee table. A half-eaten takeaway box sits on the armrest.
This used to be our place. Our safe little pocket of the world. Now, it just feels… stuck. Like time stopped here, and I kept moving.
Sean is asleep on the couch, head tilted back, mouth slightly open. There’s a crease between his brows even in rest, like he’s bracingfor a fight. I watch his chest rise and fall. I should feel something. Anger. Sadness. Nostalgia. I feel sick and tired.
My stomach churns. My grip on Gizmo tightens. My legs want to run but my feet stay planted. Sweat gathers at the nape of my neck, trickling down my spine. Every step forward feels like betrayal, even though I know staying would be the real one.
I take a seat next to him. I check my watch. It’s only 7 p.m., early for him to be asleep. Gizmo still in my arms, like armour.
I study his angular and beautiful face. His black hair is short, messy. He looks thinner, making his tall, tattooed frame look even lankier than normal.
I say his name gently. He stirs. Looks at Gizmo curled in my arms.
“Sean,” I whisper, trying not to cry. “I’m leaving. I can’t do this anymore. I’m sorry. It’s over. We both deserve better than this. I hope you understand… You know it’s not working. I’m going to a motel tonight.” He shoots up from the couch. His bloodshot eyes, dilated pupils—he’s high. If I’d known, I wouldn’t have done this tonight. He’stoostill. That kind of stillness that makes your skin crawl.
“Go on then. Get the fuck out! His voice is low, dangerous. His finger aimed at the front door. “Fuck you Camille! Fuck you for giving up like this. You’re a coward, a fucking selfish bitch.” He laughs bitterly, rubbing his face. He’s trembling with rage. Gizmo squirms in my arms. I hold her tighter. Too afraid to speak. “Get the fuck out of my house! I don’t fucking want you here!”
The words hit me like a slap. The tears come before I can stop them. I knew it would be bad, Iknew,but hearing him yell at me still hurts.
“Sean” I whisper.
“Fuck off! Good luck finding a man who’ll love you like I did!” He laughs again, his fists clenched. Even though I stopped loving him a long time ago, his words feel like poison. I turn around without another word. As I walk out the door I hear something break, like glassshattering. I don’t look back, I keep going. Holding Gizmo tight, my heart shattered in all the old familiar places.
I get in my car and drive, “I Hate This Part”by The Pussycat Dolls comes on, as the tears start to flow. I drive, but not really present. My hands move the wheel, my foot presses the pedal, but my mind is somewhere else entirely. The road blurs into a quiet rhythm until I pull into the parking lot beneath a buzzing neon sign:MOTEL, its red glow casting eerie shadows across the cracked pavement. I run inside, grab the key to my studio room from the after-hours box—something I prearranged with the receptionist.
When I park in front of the room, I tuck Gizmo inside my handbag so I can sneak her in. I haul the suitcase from my boot, grateful my room is on the ground floor.
I step inside. The beige walls softened by dim lighting. A single window overlooking the street behind. A small kitchenette sits in the corner, its silver kettle gleaming under the overhead light. The bed takes up most of the space, draped in a slightly wrinkled white comforter. It smells faintly of old linen and lemon cleaner, with a trace of something more lived-in. Like warm dust, faded cologne, and the lingering ghost of someone else’s coffee. Not unpleasant, just… familiar, like a place trying its best to feel like home. I guess for now, itishome.
I close the door behind me, pull Gizmo from my bag, and curl up in the bed with her, my clothes from today still on.
And I cry in mourning, in relief. I cry because it’s over. Because three years are gone. Because tonight, I finally let go. Tonight, I will allow myself the time to wallow. Tomorrow is a new day. But tonight… Tonight, I cry until I fall asleep.
3
Putting on my mask
I sleep like the dead, but I still wake up with a slight headache from too many tears shed. I pull myself out of bed and head to the small bathroom attached to the main living space, I lean my hands against the basin and look at myself in the mirror.
My blue-grey eyes are puffy. My dark ash-brown hair desperately needs a brush, it’s so long that when it’s down, it falls past my nipples. Hopefully a quick curl and some makeup will make me feel more human at work today.
