She squeezes my knee gently. "Text me when you're inside."
"I will."
She gets out with me and walks me to the elevator.
The doors slide open, and I step inside, the mirrored walls reflecting how wrecked I look with my swollen eyes, pale skin, and someone who got deserted by their lover.
So this is what it feels like.
When the doors close, I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The ride up feels longer than usual. Each floor ticks past with a quiet chime that grates on my nerves. The doors finally open, and I step out, walk down the hallway, and unlock my apartment. I step inside, locking the door behind me with a firm click.
The silence inside is different. It's smaller and contained. Somehow, it feels safer.
I lean my forehead against the door for a second, then push away and move deeper into the apartment. I get into the bedroom, drop my keys on the dresser, and shrug out of the sweater and leggings. My eyes catch on the bathroom mirror as I pass, and I turn back despite myself.
The marks on my thighs glare back at me, angry and red against my skin. Dried blood has barely thickened. I press my lips together and look away, my chest tightening again.
Red would be disappointed in me.
It's his fault.
Demi's voice echoes in my head, calm and certain.
Give him space.
Let him miss you.
I fill the soaking tub, get in it, and stare at the wall.
Space.
The word rolls around in my mind, sharp and irritating. Space is what he took when he walked out. Space is what left me on the floor, bleeding and shaking. But Demi said it like it meant something else.
Make him miss you.
I picture Red, with his tense shoulders, when he said he loved me, and the way his jaw clenched like it hurt to speak. He didn't leavebecause he stopped wanting me. He left because he thought he had to.
That thought steadies something inside me.
I stare at the ceiling, hands folded over my stomach. My breathing slows. The panic dulls into focus.
If space makes him miss me, then I can use that.
I get out of the tub, dry off, and go into my closet. I run my fingers along the hanging clothes, stopping on the pieces I know will drive Red insane, then I reorganize my closet so one rack holds them all.
Then, I grab my phone, slide under my sheets, and refrain from texting or calling him.
Instead, I open social media, scrolling without really seeing, then stop. An idea clicks into place, and my pulse tics up.
He thinks leaving keeps him safe.
He thinks distance protects us both.
I smile, vowing to do things differently.
I won't chase him like normal. I won't beg. I won't collapse where he can see it. I'll be fine and look better than fine.
I'll be visible without reaching for him.
