The pity tip is somehow worse than her shock.
I make her drink with hands that won't stop shaking, hyperaware of her watching me. When I hand it over, she touches my arm.
"Take care of yourself, okay?"
I force a smile. "You too."
She leaves, and I stand there gripping the counter, deep breaths.
This is my life now.
***
Day three after the breakup, my phone rings.
Daniel.
I don't answer.
Day four: eleven missed calls. Twenty-three texts. All some variation of "please" and "sorry" and "let me explain."
I block his number.
Day five: flowers delivered to Gretchen's apartment. Two dozen white roses—the kind he sent after our first real date, back when everything felt possible. I hand them to Gretchen without reading the card.
"What should I do with these?"
"Keep them. Throw them away. I don't care."
She keeps them. I pretend not to notice them dying on her kitchen counter—petals browning, water going murky. A perfect metaphor.
Day seven: he shows up at the apartment.
I hear his voice through the door—low, desperate, nothing like the cold stranger who destroyed me.
"Please. Just five minutes. I need to explain—"
Gretchen, bless her, doesn't even open the door. "She doesn't want to see you."
Silence.
Then footsteps. Retreating.
I slide down the door until I'm sitting on the floor, arms wrapped around my knees, and I don't cry. I'm too angry to cry.
Day nine: a letter slipped under the door.
I rip it up without reading.
Day twelve: another letter.
By week two, the attempts space out. Fewer calls. No more flowers. The harassment turns into haunting—less aggressive, but somehow more painful. The silence between attempts stretches longer eachtime.
I tell myself it's a good thing.
It feels like abandonment.
***
