He looks confused. "Alright what?"
"I'm done."
He laughs again, louder this time, like I've told a cute joke. "Sure, you are."
"I am," I say. "I can't keep doing this. I can't keep trying to convince someone to care."
The laugh fades. "You're overreacting."
"I'm choosing myself."
He shakes his head. "You're going to regret it."
"No," I say quietly. "I'm already relieved."
He stares at me for a long second. "Fine. If you want to be alone, be alone."
He grabs his bag and walks toward the door. He doesn't look back, ask if I'm sure, or if I'm even okay.
Somehow, that confirms everything I needed to know.
When the door clicks shut behind him, the apartment feels different. It's empty, but it's also all mine. I breathe out. My shoulders loosen, and my chest feels lighter.
The relief lasts all of twenty minutes.
Then my phone buzzes with a reminder about Dad's birthday dinner, and my stomach drops. I promised I'd show up early to help set up.
I love him, but walking into a crowded room less than twenty-four hours after ending a relationship feels like a punishment from the universe.
I pace my kitchen once, twice, trying to gather myself. I picture the noise, the hugs, the questions, the well-meaning comments about my age or my job or whether I'm seeing someone.
I picture Brandon's empty expression from earlier, and my nerves spike in a sharp, unpleasant jolt.
I grab the counter to steady myself. "It's fine," I whisper. "You're fine."
Except I don't feel fine. I feel exposed, like if anyone so much as asks me how I'm doing, I'll either cry or throw a fork.
Neither option is ideal for a birthday gathering.
I take another breath and try to summon the part of myself that can fake normal.
Then, completely uninvited, a memory surfaces, one of Dad's old photos of his service buddies. A group of men in uniform, smiling in the sun.
My eyes had lingered on one face even when I was younger. Strong jaw, steady stare, a kind of sexy confidence that didn't ask for attention but got it anyway.
Gabe Holt.
I press my palm to my cheek, startled by the heat there. I don't know why he comes to mind. Maybe because he always looked composed, or because looking at that photo made me feel something I didn't have language for back then, or because he was the first man I ever crushed on.
Frankly, part of me wishes someone like him would walk into my life right now and tell me I didn't waste my twenties on men who never saw me.
The thought is embarrassing, but it makes me smile just enough to move.
I pull on a floral dress I haven't reached for in a while and tell myself it's about comfort. That's not the truth, and I know it.
The fabric sits right on my body, close enough to feel intentional.
I fix my hair, take my time with mascara, and lace my sandals without rushing.
