"No." The word comes out smaller than I intended. "Nothing."
She stops chopping a carrot, looking up at me with those eyes that see too much. "It's only been a few days, Reese."
Has it? I’m actually not even sure. Days and nights have blended together into one endless blur.
"I keep thinking he'll call," I admit, picking at a stain on my sweatpants. "I keep checking my phone like I imagined the whole thing. Like maybe we didn't really break up and it was just some weird dream."
"But you know it wasn't."
"Yeah." I attempt a smile that feels more like a grimace. "I’ve done it again. Fallen for the one guy with more baggage than the O'Hare lost and found."
The joke falls flat. Elena doesn't even pretend to laugh.
"He's an idiot," she says instead, resuming her chopping. "He thinks he's protecting you, being noble or some shit. Men and their hero complexes."
"He's trying to keep his son," I say, defending him automatically. Even now, I can't help it. "I can't blame him for that."
"You can blame him for how he's handling it." The knife comes down with extra force on an innocent onion. "There were other options. Better ones."
I sink into a chair at my kitchen table, suddenly too tired to stand. "Doesn't matter now, does it?"
Elena works in silence for a while, the rhythm of her cooking filling the empty spaces. The apartment begins to smell like something real—garlic, onions, chicken stock simmering. It should make me hungry, but my stomach might as well belong to someone else for all the interest it shows.
"You can't just sit here forever," Elena says finally, ladling soup into a bowl.
"I know." I trace patterns on the table with my finger. "I just need a little more time."
"Time for what?"
"To stop checking my phone every five minutes. To stop hoping he'll change his mind. To figure out who I am without him and..." I catch myself before saying his son's name. That wound is still too raw to touch.
Elena sets the bowl in front of me, steam rising. "Eat," she commands. "Food first, existential crisis later."
I pick up the spoon to appease her, but the thought of swallowing anything makes my throat tighten. "Thank you," I say instead. "For coming. For the soup. For not telling me to get my shit together."
"Oh, I'll tell you that eventually." Her smile softens the words. "Just not today."
She stays another hour, distracting me from my drama by talking about normal life, helping me fold the rest of that overflowing laundry basket and wiping down counters I haven't noticed were dirty. When she leaves, the silence rushes back in, but luckily the apartment smells different now—like food and evidence someone cares.
I sit at the table long after she's gone, watching the soup grow cold, untouched. My phone stays dark beside the bowl. I don't know why I keep expecting anything different.
The familiar streets around Parkside Elementary feel different from the driver's seat of my car at 3:15 PM. I'm usually inside the building at this time, lining up wiggly kindergarteners, reminding them about backpacks and lunch boxes. But today I'm an outsider, slowing my car as I approach the school zone, my heart doing something weird and skippy. I shouldn't be here. I have no reason to be here. But I can't stay away.
It's been a week since Elena brought soup, a week and a half since Logan walked out of my apartment and my life. Time is starting to regain its structure, hours distinguishable from each other again, though the days still blur together. I find a parking spot across from the school, positioning my car where I can see the main entrance but where I'm unlikely to be noticed by anyone who might recognize me.
The school building looks different somehow—red brick, wide steps, the banner announcing the spring fundraiser hanging slightly crooked from yesterday's wind. Nothing has changed, except everything has. My classroom is in there, mydesk, my reading corner with the beanbags I bought with my own money. Mrs. Henderson is probably using them now. I wonder if she rearranged the furniture or left it how I had it.
The dismissal bell must have rung because the front doors burst open, releasing a flood of children into the cold afternoon. Their voices carry across the street—high, excited, relieved to be free. I lower my window despite the bite in the air, letting the familiar sounds wash over me.
"Mom! I got an A on my spelling test!"
"What did you bring me for a snack? I'm starving!"
"Can Zach come over to play Minecraft?"
The voices tangle together, creating a familiar chaos that makes my heart ache with want. This was my world. These were my days.
Parents stand in clusters near the entrance, their breath visible in the cold as they chat and wait. Cars idle in the pickup lane, exhaust being pressed down by the cold air. I watch through the misty curtain. I chuckle as I realize it’s an appropriate symbol for my new reality—close enough to see, too far to touch.
