I don't ask what he means. I'm afraid of the answer.
The silence stretches again, and I find words tumbling out before I can stop them. "Is everyone... is everyone alright?"
Stupid question. You left. Why do you care?
But I do care. That's the problem.
"Define 'alright.'"
My throat tightens. I don't speak.
Pietro exhales slowly. "Everyone in this house struggles with a lot, Kristen. Some more than others. Some in ways they refuse to admit."
Nico. He's talking about Nico. I know it in my bones.
"I don't usually do this," Pietro continues. "But I'm asking you—call Nora. Call Vittoria. Now and then, when you can."
"Why?"
"Because they miss you." A beat. "They miss Lily."
The tears I've been fighting spill over. I turn away from the counter, pressing my back against the refrigerator and sliding down until I'm sitting on the cold linoleum floor.
"Vittoria especially. She's not handling... certain things well."
I want to ask about Nico. The question burns on my tongue like whiskey. How is he? Is he eating? Sleeping?
But I don't ask. I can't.
"I'll call them," I whisper instead. "I will."
"Good." Pietro clears his throat, and the businesslike tone returns. "Is there anything else?"
Yes. Tell him I'm sorry. Tell him I understand why he did it, even if I hate how he did it. Tell him I miss him so much I can't breathe sometimes.
"No," I say. "That's everything."
"Take care of yourself, Kristen . And Lily."
"Goodbye, Pietro."
I hang up before he can respond.
The phone drops from my fingers onto the floor beside me. I pull my knees to my chest and bury my face against them, letting the sobs come now that no one can hear.
I keep pretending our cramped apartment feels like home again, of acting like I don't wake up reaching for someone who isn't there.
I thought leaving would feel like freedom.
Instead, it feels like drowning.
You did the right thing, I tell myself for the hundredth time. He manipulated you. He made decisions about your life without asking. That's what you swore you'd never accept again.
The apartment feels smaller every day.
Maybe it's because I got used to endless hallways. Or maybe it's because every corner here holds a memory of struggling just to survive. Either way, the walls press in tighter now.
I sit at my tiny kitchen table with a cup of coffee that's gone cold, scrolling through job listings on my cracked phone screen. Waitress. Cashier. Night shift stocker. The same positions I've cycled through for months, always one emergency away from losing everything.
