Chase scoffs, dries his hands, and heads to the closet, calling out over his shoulder, “You should go to the doctor and figure out what’s wrong.”
No sympathy. No shared grief.
No encouraging words of how we will get through this together or that it will happen when the timing is right.
Simply, accusation that this is my fault.
I need to figure out what’s wrong with me.
I’m the problem. I’m the failure. I’m the letdown.
Not him. Never him.
I stand in the bathroom, staring at my reflection, tears still streaking down my face.
The woman looking back at me is unrecognizable—exhausted, defeated, broken.
All I ever wanted was to be enough.
Enough for him. Enough for this.
But I’ll never be enough.
THREE
TORI
It’safter six when I finally make it back to the apartment. My head throbs, my feet ache, and all I want in life is a whiskey sour and a bubble bath deep enough to drown in.
My key sticks a little in the lock, but eventually gives way, and the familiar smell of cinnamon and vanilla greets me as I push the door open with my hip and step inside.
The lights are off in the main room, late-afternoon shadows stretching across the hardwood like fingers. I toe off my pumps by the door, already halfway fantasizing about slipping into pajamas I haven’t worn to impress anyone in years.
I head toward the closet to drop my shoes where they belong—only to find Skye’s boots tossed haphazardly into the existing pile, her denim jacket draped over the pile like a flag of rebellion.
I sigh. Not in frustration—more in a fond, resigned sort of way.
Skye is a mess, and I love her.
Still, I shake out her jacket, smooth the arms, and hang it beside mine. Old habits die hard.
I do the same with my blazer, then pause, hand lingering on the hanger. The urge to organize the rest of the shoe rack itches inthe back of my mind. Maybe rearrange the entry shelf, fold the scarves, color-code the umbrellas.
But I stop myself.
Skye doesn’t need fixing. She never asked for that. And just becauseIprefer shoes lined up by season and heel height doesn’t mean her chaotic pile is wrong.
We’d talked about it before I moved in—had a whole conversation where we set expectations and boundaries and made promises about communication and space and mutual respect.
She swore she’d changed after living with Alis and Sunny for half a year. Told me with complete sincerity that she was now “a whole-ass adult woman capable of washing a damn dish.” Her exact words.
I didn’t quite believe her. But I wanted to.
And maybe that was enough.
I glance around the living room. The throw blanket is slouched across the back of the couch, half on, half off, like it couldn’t commit to one or the other. A half-empty coffee mug sits on the side table, steam long gone. But there are no clothes on the floor, no forgotten smoothie cups growing science experiments on the counter.
The house feels lived in. Imperfect, but intentional.
