I want to be stronger. I want to move through this transition as if it’s just another part of life that I can handle. But the truthis, I’m struggling. And as much as I hate admitting it, I know I’m barely holding it together.
I thought by now, I’d have learned to accept my fate. To find a semblance of peace in the inevitability of it all. But the last week has made one thing clear… I’m not ready.
At first, I convinced myself it was just the stress of packing up my home, the logistics of the move. It was easier to focus on the physical tasks than to face the truth. Despite the help I had, there was still so much to sort out. So many small things I had to manage before moving in with Marcus. Like making sure the furniture was covered and would be safe from dust and upheaval. Sorting out the utilities, dealing with the mundane details that should have felt like a relief but only added to the chaos.
It was strange, standing there and trying to decide what to take. I hadn’t realized, until I was forced to choose, how much of myself lived in my possessions. Each item carried a piece of me. Memories, habits, emotions. And suddenly, the question wasn’t what to pack, but what parts of myself I was willing to show Marcus and what I wanted to keep just for me.
And with the chaos of everything else—the move, the marriage, the political pressures—it was all too much.
Eventually, I reach for a pair of sweats and a hoodie. I love my suits and dressing up, but today is moving day. And despite that, I don’t want Marcus to get too comfortable with me being his arm candy. He might as well realize now that, outside of the office and going out, it’s comfort over style for me. Although, I must admit that I do take care to look neat and presentable, even when I’m wearing sportswear. It’s all about respect. Respect for myself and for those around me.
A small rap on the door reminds me that I have to get a move on. I was supposed to move in with Marcus a week ago, but the small, niggly things took longer than anticipated.
If I’m completely honest, I was procrastinating. A lot.
“You know it’s customary to grant access when someone knocks on your door,” Min says as she peeks around the door.
“Since when do you need permission to barge in?” I answer her.
“Things are going to be different now, and I won’t be able to come into your room whenever I want to.”
My face falls before I can stop it, the weight of whatever emotion I’ve been trying to hold at bay spilling through the cracks. It’s a split-second too quick for me to recover. I feel the familiar pull to mask it, to force the walls back up, but before I can, Min’s gaze softens. She tilts her head, an expression that’s equal parts curiosity and concern, and I know she sees right through me.
“How are you doing?” Her voice is gentle, like she already knows the answer, like she’s not asking for my usual carefully rehearsed responses.
The question hangs in the air, heavier than I want it to be. No matter how much I try to control what others see, Min’s always been able to see the truth beneath it. It leaves me feeling exposed, vulnerable, but it also leaves me feeling loved.
“I’m fine.”
I’m not fine. I’m far from fine. I feel displaced—physically, emotionally, socially—and as much as I want to be able to move on and accept my fate, the desires of what I wanted for my life still linger in the back of my mind like ghosts.
“I’m guessing by the long pause that you’re not doing well this morning.”
“It is what it is, Min. I just need to stop sulking and get on with it.”
I stare at the heaps of boxes waiting to go to storage. The staff wanted to help me with it yesterday, but I am hanging on to the really ridiculous mindset that if I don’t store anything away,then nothing has changed. Even though everything has changed in every possible way.
Min follows my gaze. “You might as well rip off the Band-Aid.”
I stifle a sigh, the weight of the day pressing down harder than I want to admit. My shoulders feel heavy, and it takes everything in me not to let the exhaustion show. I grab a box, the cardboard edges biting into my palms, but it’s a small discomfort, something to focus on instead of the overwhelming storm of everything I need to do.
“You’re right.” The words feel like they’ve been stuck in my throat just waiting to be said, but now that they’re out, they sound so…tired. Like defeat.
“Help me, will you?” The plea is soft, almost an afterthought, but there’s no mistaking the edge of vulnerability in my voice. I didn’t want to ask for help, hell, I’ve never wanted to. But today? Today I need it. And for once, I’m not strong enough to pretend otherwise.
“You know we have staff to do this.”
“Yes, and I’m perfectly capable of doing this myself.”
Liar.
Min grabs the box from my arms. “And you’re procrastinating again. The car is out front. Let’s go.” She takes her phone out of the satchel slung over her shoulder and shoots off a text. “There, the guys will be up to take the boxes?—”
“But—”
“But nothing. You have marked the boxes in order of importance. I’ve told them to put the least important ones at the back and the most important at the front. If you don’t get your butt in the car right now, I’m going to get them to haulyouout of here.”
“You know you can be a real?—”
