But wanting him to have everything and wanting him to stay aren’t mutually exclusive, and that contradiction is burning a hole straight through me.
Something invisible snapped when I closed the door, when he knocked and I buried my head into the cold pillow and cried.
The worst part of all of this is I’m so happy for him while also being heartbroken for me. Proud of the man he is but mourning the piece of him, of us, I’m about to lose.
I lay there staring at the ceiling, tracing cracks in the paint and trying to make sense of how one conversation could change everything. About how, hours ago, I wanted to tell him how I felt and ended up with a pit in my stomach the size of a sinkhole.
Love shouldn’t hurt like this. Except it does, every time. It hurts even more when I picture him walking away, carving a future that doesn’t have space for me.
Hours pass, and my eyes burn with exhaustion, but I can’t give in.
When I hear sounds of someone moving around in the morning, my body tenses automatically. The familiar squeak of the cupboard opening, the coffee machine whirring.
For a second, I almost want to go out there. Say something. Anything.
But what would I even say?
I can’t ask him to change anything for me. I won’t. No matter how much it hurts, I was selfish enough last night to take that joy away from his news. He needs to do this, and I need to let him. Anything I’d say to him would sound like begging him to choose me. So, I stay in my bedroom.
There’s a creak of wood outside my door, and the shadow of him pauses just there, within my reach. My lungs seize up, too scared to fully breathe in case I catch a hint of his scent. But then he moves away, and the click of the front door echoes like a slam to my heart.
He’s gone.
And the silence that follows feels deafening.
My nose tingles with unshed tears. I guess I’d better put my plan in motion.
One of the other reasons I couldn’t sleep.
I sit up slowly, pressing the heel of my hand to my chest like that could dull the throb beneath it. I swing my legs over the side of the bed anyway. If I don’t move, I’ll drown in it.
My laptop sits on the nightstand. When I open it, the Campus Housing Hub email sits right near the top of my inbox, bold and unread.
Your campus apartment is available for early occupancy.
I’d been ignoring it all week. Every time it popped up, I’d close it, like not looking at it meant it wasn’t real. I didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to imagine walking through that door with my things packed up.
But now? Maybe that’s exactly what I need to do.
I hover over the reply button, fingers trembling, then click and type my message and send it.
I’m not angry. I wish I were. Anger would be easier than this hollow pit I’m in. I’m sure anger will come, but not now.
“You’re made of tougher stuff than this, Olivia. Get it together.” I sniff and push my shoulders back before I drag myself to the bathroom, splash cold water on my face, and stare at my reflection. My eyes are puffy, skin pale, hair tangled at my shoulders. Okay, first port of call is showering and making myself not look like I’ve risen from the dead.
An hour later, I’ve convinced myself I’m going to be fine. My hair is clean and braided, my skin… well, it doesn’t look like glass despite the serum telling me it would, but I’m faking it until I make it today. I grab the fresh laundry and put it straight into my suitcase as Nick Fury snores on my bed. I know the reality of me being able to take him is very slim, but I’m planning to cry and tell them he’s my emotional support cat, which isn’t far from the truth, if I’m being honest. He just gets me. And god knows it’sunlikely I’ll be able to take my new bed with me, so the least I can have is my cat, right?
Delusional should be my middle name.
When I’ve packed most of my clothes, I text Daphne.
Me
You busy?
She calls instead of replying.
“How did last night go?” she asks immediately, voice bright with expectation. “Was it everything you wanted it to be?”
