Not in this city.
Not anywhere near the memory of him.
The irony is so brutal it's almost funny.
I spent years drowning in debt, working myself to exhaustion, one missed payment away from eviction. And now? Now I'm completely financially free. I could move anywhere. Do anything. Buy a plane ticket to Europe. Enroll in that advanced bodywork certification program I always wanted. Hell, I could buy a house.
But none of it matters.
Because the only thing I actually wanted—the only thing that made me feel warm and safe andseen—is gone.
I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.
I will not cry.
I have cried enough.
I have spent the last forty-eight hours crying into my pillow, crying in the shower, crying while packing boxes. I am done crying.
Except I'm not.
Because the tears are already burning at the corners of my eyes, and my throat is tight, and my chest feels like someone is sitting on it.
I take a shaky breath.
Get it together, Tamsin.
You survived eviction notices. You survived medical debt. You survived working two jobs on four hours of sleep.
You can survive this.
Except I don't know if I can.
Because this isn't about money.
This is about losing the one person who made me feel like I wasn't just surviving.
The one person who looked at me—exhausted, broke, sarcastic, stubborn—and decided I was worth keeping.
Until I wasn't.
I grab the orange juice bottle and take another sip.
Still tastes like nothing.
The floor vibrates.
I freeze.
It's subtle at first. Just a faint tremor beneath my feet, like a heavy truck passing on the street below.
But it doesn't stop.
The vibration intensifies.
The cheap furniture rattles. The windows shake harder. The half-empty orange juice bottle trembles on the table.
And then I hear it.
