Because it wasn’t just the money.
It was the way he said it. Like I was a joke he shared with his buddies. Like my curves were a flaw he tolerated. Like my trust was something he could spend.
My fingers curled around the doorframe so hard my knuckles ached.
And the worst part?
I didn’t storm in. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw things at his stupid head.
I didn’t do anything dramatic.
I just stood there, silent, because the shame hit first. Heavy and slick, coating my throat.
As a curvy girl, I’d spent years learning how to love my body anyway, how to wear a dress that hugged my hips without apologizing for existing.
But hearing it from the man who proposed to me?
It cut deeper than it had any right to.
And then I did the only thing I could do without falling apart right there in his hallway.
I left.
I walked out of his place and made a beeline for my tiny rental room, the cold air slicing my lungs as I half-walked, half-ran, like if I slowed down for even a second, I’d fall apart.
The second I got inside, my hands started moving on autopilot.
I shoved clothes into my backpack. Sweaters. Jeans. Socks. Anything warm. I grabbed my documents, my charger, my toothbrush, the little bottle of perfume I almost never wore because he always said it was “too much.”
The ring on my finger felt like it was burning.
So I slid it off and left it on the counter.
I walked out of my apartment, heart slamming, and the air outside felt sharper, cleaner.
Like the world was suddenly real again.
I emptied the account in maxed-out withdrawals until the ATM finally refused me. Ten dollars left. Barely anything, but enough to keep the account from screaming empty.
It was our shared account, sure.
But it was my name on the loan. My credit. My risk. My future.
My money.
I stuffed it into an envelope, hands shaking so badly I nearly dropped the whole thing, then shoved it into my purse and zipped it like I was sealing a bomb.
I went straight to the bus station.
I bought the first ticket leaving the city, not even reading the destination until it printed. Then I sat on a hard plastic chair, clutching my backpack and purse to my chest like armor, and stared at the floor until the announcement called my route.
Lovesbury.
I didn’t pick it.
It picked me.
The memory loosens its grip, and the bus comes rushing back in. The heater clicks. The tires hiss over packed snow.
