Outside, the air smells like rain. I pull my hoodie tighter and head toward the street. The Uber driver doesn’t ask questions, which I’m grateful for. The silence feels like a favor.
When we pull up to my old apartment, it’s like stepping into another version of myself. There’s the same old man sitting on the stoop smoking his cigarette.
“Back again?” he asks when he recognizes me.
“Guess so.”
Inside, the air is stale, but I exhale like I can finally breathe. No whispering girls, no posters of smiling faces, no reminders of two stupid boys. Just chipped tile, a crooked window, and quiet.
I set my bags down and sigh.
For the first time in months, I don’t feel watched.
I make coffee in the dented pot I left behind. It tastes burnt, but it’s better than nothing. I stand by the window, cup in hand, watching the rain drizzle down the street. Somewhere out there, Jamie’s probably pouring whiskey for strangers, pretending he’s fine. Miles is probably pretending too.
And me? I’m done pretending.
Maybe the best place for me to be at is with my mother, away from all this mess.
I pull out my laptop. The cursor blinks on an empty screen. I open the email app and start typing…
Dear Professor Hastings,
I regret to inform you that I’ll be withdrawing from the program effective immediately. Personal reasons. Thank you for your understanding,
Chloe Ashford
I send it before I can change my mind.
Next is the cheerleaders group chat.
Hey. I’m out. Good luck.
Then, I block them all.
The quiet afterward feels strange like I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, but there’s no buzz, no vibration. Just stillness.
I clean. Because that’s what I do when I can’t think. I sweep the floor, wipe the counters, fix the little crooked painting above the couch. Every small movement feels like reclaiming something.
When I finally sit down, the apartment is clean, but my chest isn’t. My mind drifts back to the way Miles looked at me that night—half-regret, half-hunger. And Jamie’s disappointment, heavy as stone.
Maybe I was naïve to think any of this could’ve worked.
Maybe people like them and people like me are meant to circle each other until something burns.
I close my eyes and think about the girl I was when I got here. The one who thought she could rebuild. Who believed in new beginnings and clean slates. I want to tell her I’m sorry. That healing doesn’t look like sunlight and lavender candles. Sometimes it looks like running away again, just so you can survive.
My phone buzzes once. Unknown number.
For a second, I consider ignoring it. Then curiosity wins.
Unknown:so you’re really leaving huh
No name, but I don’t need one. Miles. The lowercaseso, the lazy punctuation—it’s him. Bella must have told him.
I stare at the screen. He doesn’t deserve an answer. Not after everything.
But my thumb still hovers over the keyboard.
