I don’t feel relief.
I feel finished.
This can’t happen again.
I might not survive it again.
I push myself up slowly, every muscle aching, and wipe my face with the back of my hand. I don’t look in the mirror. I already know what I’ll see.
I go to the bedroom and pull one small bag from the back of the closet. I pack without thinking too much. Underwear. Jeans. A sweater. Toothbrush. Charger. The motions are steady, methodical. My hands shake, but I don’t stop. If I stop, I might sit down. If I sit down, I might stay.
I won’t.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. A text from Marco already.
Don’t start shit.
I stare at it for one long second.
Then I type one word.
Done.
I hit send. Block his number. Block everything connected to him before I can talk myself out of it.
I check my purse. Cash. Not much, but enough to get out of the city. His credit card, still tucked into the side pocket. I hesitate only a moment before closing my fingers around it.
I zip the bag. Slip my shoes on quietly, like he might still be here, like the walls are listening.
The hallway light flickers as I leave the apartment. The door clicks shut behind me with a sound so small, it feels unreal.
Outside, the night air is cold and wet, rain misting my face. I breathe it in, deep and shaky, and keep walking.
* * *
At the airport, I book the first red eye I can find with trembling fingers and his card. No destination matters as long as it’s far.
It isn’t until I’m seated at the gate, bag at my feet, heart still racing, that the truth finally settles in.
I’m not scared of leaving.
I’m scared of how long I stayed.
