I risked one last glance over my shoulder.
He was still there, sitting in the car like some broody romance novel cover come to life. Watching me. Waiting.
“Just breathe,” I told myself as I stepped inside, the quiet swallowing me whole. The walls felt too close, like they knew what was coming.
This was my space. My mess to walk into.
So I shut the door behind me with a quiet click—and maybe, just maybe, a whisper of hope that when I opened it again, he’d still be waiting.
I stepped into the apartment and—yikes. It hit me like walking into a memory-shaped brick wall. The silence was loud. The kind of loud that makes your ears ring. It still smelled like him—cologne, sweat, and that weird crisp scent I always associated with ice rinks and broken promises.
Nope. Not doing that today.
I bolted for the closet and yanked out my suitcase like it had personally offended me. Pajamas first. Obviously. The fluffy kind that made me feel like I lived in a cloud and had zero emotional baggage. Then underwear—because practical trauma-packing is still packing. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror—messy bun, red eyes, definite “woman on the edge” energy—and whispered, “Girl, pull it together.”
Did I listen? Barely.
Next up: skincare. My tiny, overpriced army of lotions and serums went flying into the bag like I was storming the castle of emotional damage with retinol and hyaluronic acid. Take that, heartbreak.
Then I spotted them. The dresses.
Hanging in the corner, all smug and sparkly. Too fancy for this moment. Too full of memories. Too… hopeful. I stared them down like we were in a western standoff. But instead of walking away, I grabbed two—one deep blue, one fire-engine red—and stuffed them in the bag like, you’re coming with me, drama dresses.
I zipped the suitcase with a dramatic flourish that honestly should’ve had theme music. And just like that, I felt lighter. Not healed. Not whole. But like I’d peeled off a version of myself that no longer fit.
The apartment still held echoes—photos, old perfume, that dumb coffee mug he always stole—but I didn’t feel trapped in it anymore. I wasn’t walking away in shame. I was walking out with intent.
And a suitcase full of night cream and emotional resilience.
Time to go.
I took a deep breath and rolled my suitcase into the hallway like I was dragging the final act of a drama behind me. The wheels clacked dramatically against the tiles, which felt very appropriate. I was one sad montage away from a breakup scene in a movie, complete with messy bun and emotional baggage—literal and metaphorical.
And then, of course, Becca appeared.
Wild curls bouncing, oversized tote bag swinging like a weapon of chaos, she practically sparkled with concern. Becca: resident building gossip and unofficial emotional support extrovert.
“Hey!” she said, too chipper for someone who clearly sensed I was mid-breakdown. “Are you okay? I saw you leave last night and figured—well, after the thing with Mikel?—”
I blinked. Tilted my head. “The thing?”
Her smile hiccupped. That’s the only way I can describe it—like her face did a nervous glitch. “I mean… I saw him. With that girl from 3C. A couple nights ago. The one with the tiny dogs and the neon bike shorts? I didn’t know how to tell you, but I figured you’d found out.”
My brain short-circuited.
With the girl from 3C? Tiny dogs girl?
“What girl?” I asked, way too calm for what was happening inside my body, which was mostly fire and confusion and the sound of glass shattering in my soul.
Becca’s eyes widened like I’d just told her I didn’t believe in indoor plumbing. “Oh. Oh no. I thought—shoot, Mina, I thought you knew. She was in the lobby wearing that weird fuzzy crop top and laughing way too hard at something he said. It looked… not platonic.”
The hallway tilted a little.
Suddenly, every weird night practice, every text he “forgot” to answer, every too-slick excuse played on loop in my brain like a blooper reel from the world’s worst relationship.
I gripped the handle of my suitcase like it might fly out of my hand and hit the emotional ceiling I was fast approaching.
“I thought…” I trailed off. Because what was I supposed to say? I thought him betting me like a hockey puck was the lowest we’d go?
