The first thing that hit me wasn’t her voice. It was her perfume—sharp, floral, expensive—rushing down the hallway of our Seattle apartment building like it had arrived five seconds before she did to stake out the territory.

Then came the heels.

Click. Click. Click.

They rang against the worn gray tiles outside 4B, confident little gunshots in the quiet Saturday evening, echoing all the way down to the elevator that still smelled faintly of takeout and bleach. Behind me, our apartment throbbed with low music and the muffled hum of Carter’s coworkers laughing over IPAs and curated playlists.

I opened the door.

She filled the frame like she’d practiced it: fitted gray dress, glossy hair, two bottles of Oregon Pinot Noir hooked casually in one manicured hand. Her smile was already in place, bright and calculated, the smile of a woman who believed the game had been decided before I ever stepped onto the field.

“Hey,” she said, extending her free hand. “You must be Reagan. I’ve heard so much about you. This place looks amazing.”

I took her hand.

My grip was steady, deliberate, just a fraction too firm. I met her eyes and held them, gave her exactly one heartbeat to think this was going to be normal.

Then I smiled—small, polite, lethal.

“He’s yours now,” I said quietly. “I’m leaving.”

Her smile didn’t disappear. It cracked. Just a hairline fracture at first, like glass under too much pressure. Her fingers twitched in my hand. She blinked once, fast, as if she hadn’t heard me right.

Behind me, the party didn’t stop. It just… thinned.

The music kept playing from the Bluetooth speaker Carter had obsessed over all week, but the conversations behind me turned to air. Laughter cut off mid-breath. I heard the faint clink of glass on tile. Someone whispered “oh my God” in the kitchen, and I knew, without turning around, that Carter was standing a few feet back, watching this unfold like a scene he’d never thought would actually be performed in front of a live audience.

I let go of her hand.

I didn’t apologize, didn’t explain. I turned my back on the woman holding two bottles of wine like trophies and walked to the coat rack by the door. The navy coat was there, hanging exactly where I’d left it—the one he’d bought me last Christmas at Nordstrom, saying, “You should have something nice for the parties we’re going to host.”

I slid it on, slow and unhurried. My hands didn’t shake.

“Thank you all for coming,” I said, my voice cutting clean through the room. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. “Enjoy the party.”

Silence is never total. There was still the faint hum of the fridge. The soft squeak of someone’s shoe when they shifted their weight. The little click Nicole’s fingernail made against one of the wine bottles when her hand trembled.

But it felt like the entire room had stopped breathing.

As I turned back toward the door, I caught Carter’s eyes over the sea of frozen faces. He looked like someone had just driven a nail through his throat. His mouth was slightly open, but no words came out.

I didn’t stop.

I walked past him, past Nicole, past his UX coworkers with their designer sneakers and stunned expressions. The hallway outside our apartment was cool, the air crisp from a draft that always slipped in from the stairwell. I stepped across the threshold like I was crossing a border.

The door clicked shut behind me—a soft, precise sound, like punctuation at the end of a sentence you can never take back.

I didn’t look back.

The thing about moments like that—the cinematic ones, the ones everyone remembers—is that nobody ever sees the hours that came before. The quiet calculations. The invisible line being drawn while everyone thinks you’re just fixing a leaky pipe under the sink.

The Monday before the party, I was on my knees on the kitchen floor in that same Seattle apartment, half of my body shoved under the cabinet as I adjusted a loose seal on the garbage disposal. The building was older, leftover from when this part of the city housed dock workers instead of software engineers, and if you didn’t know how to fix things yourself, the landlord would happily ignore your maintenance request for three weeks.

Water dripped once, then stopped. I tightened the ring with my wrench, wiped my hands on an old cotton rag, and slid backward into the open air of the kitchen.

That’s when the front door slammed.

The sound rattled the frames on the wall and shook a thin dusting of spice from the edge of the cabinet. It wasn’t the casual slam of a gust of wind or a distracted hand. It was deliberate, controlled. A man entering his own home like he needed the apartment to know he’d arrived.

I didn’t flinch.

I sat there on the floor, knees on the cheap vinyl, rag in one hand, wrench in the other, and watched his shoes appear first. Clean white sneakers, laces perfectly tied, the kind of shoes people bought after Googling “minimalist style for men in tech.”

Carter stepped fully into view, arms folded across his chest like a manager about to deliver a performance review.

“We need to talk about Saturday,” he said.

No “hi.” No “how was your day?” Just a sentence dropped into the room like a weight.

I stood slowly, feeling my legs protest from the cramped position, and tilted my head just enough to make it look like I was curious instead of wary.

“What about Saturday?” I asked.

His jaw was tight. He took a slow breath, the way he did when he was preparing for a presentation at work, shoulders rolling back so his shirt sat perfectly across them. I could almost see the imaginary mirror he liked too much—our closet door—reflecting back the version of himself he’d been rehearsing.

“I’ve invited someone,” he said finally. “Someone important to me. And I need you to be mature about it.”

There it was.

Not a conversation. A directive, wrapped in the softest possible language to make it sound reasonable. Compliance dressed up as compromise.

I folded the rag in my hands, edges lined up just so, and placed it on the counter beside the wrench.

“And who exactly is this ‘important someone’?” I asked, keeping my voice flat, smooth, the way the surface of a lake looks untouched even when the current underneath is pulling everything sideways.

He didn’t look away. He didn’t fidget. That was the thing about Carter: his worst decisions always came out of him in the same calm tone as his best ideas.

“Nicole,” he said.

The name cut the air clean in half.

I didn’t repeat it because I needed clarification. I repeated it because I wanted him to hear how it sounded in my mouth, in our kitchen, in the apartment we’d spent two years building a life in.

“Nicole,” I said, setting the wrench into my toolbox with a quiet metallic clink. “You mean your ex-girlfriend. The one you still follow on every platform because blocking people is ‘immature’. That Nicole?”

He shifted his weight, leaned back against the counter, and crossed his arms tighter. The pose was familiar—comfortable—and suddenly I could see it clearly: this wasn’t a spontaneous confession. It was a script.

“Yes,” he said. “Nicole. And I have always been friends. That’s never been a secret. If that makes you uncomfortable, maybe it says more about your own insecurity than anything I’m doing.”

There it was again. The little twist.

He wasn’t just telling me what was going to happen in our home. He was telling me that any negative feeling I had about it was proof of my own shortcomings.

I turned fully toward him, giving him all of my attention, my voice calm as steady rain.

“You invited your ex to a party in our home,” I said. “A party we planned together. And you’re calling me insecure?”

As I spoke, I slid my watch off my wrist—the one my grandfather had left me, metal warm from my skin—and set it on the counter. For a second, I focused only on the feeling of my skin exposed to the cool kitchen air.

He didn’t blink.

“I’m saying I need you to handle this like an adult,” he replied. “If you can’t, maybe you’re not as confident or emotionally mature as I thought.”

I let silence stretch between us long enough for him to feel it, long enough for him to shift his weight from one foot to the other, for the corner of his mouth to twitch in the way it always did when he felt slightly off-balance.

Then I smiled. Not the wide smile he liked, the one that made him say I looked “approachable” at company events. This one was smaller, sharper, all edge.

“Don’t worry,” I said, reaching for my phone on the counter, my eyes never leaving his. “I’ll be very mature about it.”

The next morning, gray Seattle light slipped through the curtains like water seeping in under a door. It was the kind of light that made everything look muted and soft, even when it wasn’t.

Carter’s alarm hadn’t gone off yet.

He lay on his side, one arm thrown over his head, breathing slow and even, face relaxed in a way I hadn’t seen when he was awake in months. He looked younger in sleep, less curated, the lines from too many hours staring at screens softened into something almost boyish.

I watched him for a moment, standing in the doorway in my thick socks, toothbrush still in my hand.

It would have been easy to lie back down. To nudge him awake with a kiss on his shoulder and pretend we hadn’t had that conversation. To pretend that inviting Nicole into our home for a party we’d planned together was a small thing I was making too big.

I turned away.

In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth with the water running at the lowest possible pressure, the way I always did when I didn’t want to wake him. Old habits, even when you’re planning to break them, die harder than you think. I rinsed my mouth, tied my hair back, and laced my work boots in the hallway with quiet fingers.

By the time his alarm finally chimed, I was already half out the door, lunch packed, toolbox in hand, slipping into the damp morning air of South Lake Union like it was any other weekday.

Cascade Robotics sat in one of those glass buildings downtown that reflected the Seattle sky so perfectly it sometimes looked like the offices were floating. Inside, it smelled like coffee and whiteboards, and the hum of 3D printers had become so familiar I barely registered it anymore.

By mid-morning break, I was sitting in the driver’s seat of my service van in the parking lot, engine off, rain dotting the windshield in soft bursts. The city around me moved on autopilot—buses hissing to the curb, cyclists weaving between them, the Space Needle peeking out from behind gray clouds in the distance.

I stared at my hands on the steering wheel and started inventorying my life.

“Passport,” I muttered to myself. “Birth certificate. Grandpa’s watch. External hard drive. License. Tool set. Clothes I actually like. The photo from Rattlesnake Ridge. The lease.”

My fingers tapped an uneven rhythm on the worn leather cover like I was checking off boxes on an invisible list.

Maya walked past then, balancing a sandwich and her phone, her dark curls pulled back into a messy bun. She paused at the open van door and leaned one forearm on the frame.

“You okay?” she asked, squinting at me. “You look like you’re planning a heist.”

I huffed out something that was almost a laugh.

“Sometimes,” I said, meeting her eyes, “you don’t realize you’ve walked into a trap until someone points at the exit and dares you not to take it.”

Her gaze sharpened. Maya had the kind of face that didn’t miss much.

She didn’t push. She just reached into the bag, pulled out half her sandwich, and handed it to me.

“Eat,” she said. “Revolution requires carbs.”

Then she walked away.

By 3 p.m., the rain had turned to a fine mist that stuck to everything like a film. I drove from the Cascade parking lot to the Navy Federal Credit Union just off Mercer Street, the one sandwiched between a nail salon and a dry cleaner, its blue logo glowing faintly through the clouds.

Inside, it was all neutral carpeting and brochures with smiling couples standing in front of houses they couldn’t really afford. A woman with a neat bob and a name tag that said “Alicia” called me over after exactly nine minutes of waiting.

“How can we help you today?” she asked, fingers poised over the keyboard.

“I’d like to open a new checking and savings account,” I said. “Something private. Separate.”

Her expression didn’t change. In Seattle, especially in military-heavy branches like Navy Federal, “separate” tells its own story.

“Of course,” she said. “We can set that up. Just you on the account?”

“Just me.”

Twenty minutes later, I had new account numbers, a stack of forms, and the thin, light weight of a brand-new debit card in my hand. I moved $12,000 into that account—the balance from every solo paycheck I’d quietly been funneling into my personal emergency fund since the first time Carter had said, “You don’t really need your own savings, we’re a team,” with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

No shared logins. No joint app. No email notifications he would see on the iPad we both used.

On the way home, I pulled into a gas station just off the I-5 interchange, the sort of place where semis idled and tired parents bribed kids with candy they weren’t supposed to have. I parked along the side lot, out of the way, and pulled my phone out.

Text to Ava.

That spare room you mentioned. Is it still open?

Her reply came before I could even lock the screen.

It’s yours. You okay?

I stared at the blinking cursor for a long second, then typed back.

I will be. I’ll explain Saturday.

Traffic was thick heading back into the city, brake lights stretching ahead like a red river between concrete barriers. The van radio played something soft and forgettable while I rehearsed nothing in my head and everything in my chest.

By the time I pushed open the apartment door, the sun was sliding behind the hills, painting the sky over Puget Sound in streaks of orange and gray. Carter was at the counter, unloading groceries from canvas bags like a domestic magazine spread.

“Hey,” he said, looking up with a bright smile. “I got those rosemary crackers you like.” He held up the bag. “Thought they’d go with the charcuterie board.”

I hung my jacket on the hook, watching him move, noting the extra effort in the way he arranged the cheese on the cutting board. He’d been electric all week, charging his way through party prep like he’d been waiting his whole adult life to show off both his girlfriend and his Spotify skills to his colleagues.

“That’ll impress her,” I said, keeping my tone light. “Oregon Pinot, rosemary crackers, curated playlist. It’s a full experience.”

There was the flicker again—that tiny crease between his brows, there and gone in a breath, before he smoothed his expression back into practiced confidence.

He had no idea I’d already moved my watch and hard drive under the driver’s seat of my van. No idea I’d opened a separate account. No idea I had a key to Ava’s place in Ballard waiting for me.

Friday nights in Seattle are a specific kind of quiet—the city humming but not roaring, the sound of distant traffic mixing with the soft clatter of neighbors making dinner. Inside our apartment, though, it felt like the volume had been turned up one notch too high.

Carter moved through the living room with a roll of clear tape and a string of twinkle lights, humming along to his own playlist. The apartment, usually cluttered with our mismatched furniture and my half-finished mechanic projects, looked almost… curated. As if he’d been staging it in his mind for months.

“Can you hand me the tape?” he called, stretching up to hook the lights over the large window that faced the alley.

I crossed the room and passed it to him.

“You want them angled down or across?” I asked.

He stepped back, squinted, and tilted his head.

“Down,” he said. “That way the light reflects better on the cheese board.”

Of course.

I watched him work from the corner of my eye as I sorted votive candles on the coffee table. He had no idea that the gym bag resting by the bedroom door already held my backup laptop, three shirts that made me feel like myself, my favorite worn-in jeans, and the manila envelope with my technician’s license.

“Not bad, huh?” he said finally, hands on his hips as he surveyed his handiwork. “Honestly, I think we pulled this off. It’s going to be a great night.”

I lined a row of candles in a straight line, each one equidistant.

“Definitely a turning point,” I said.

He didn’t catch the weight in it.

Around eight, he ordered pizza from the place down the street, the one with the brick oven and the permanently annoyed employees. We sat on the couch, paper plates on our knees, while he scrolled through the RSVPs on his phone.

“Look,” he said, turning the screen toward me. “Nicole confirmed. She’s bringing two bottles of Oregon Pinot. Told you she’d come through.”

The name slid across the screen like a notification from another life.

“That’s thoughtful of her,” I replied, taking a slow bite of pizza.

He studied my face instead of the food.

“You’re really okay with this?” he asked. “Like, really? Most women would be at least a little uncomfortable.”

“Maybe I’m not most women,” I said, standing to take my plate to the sink. “You asked me to be mature. I’m being mature.”

Later, while he sang off-key in the shower, his voice echoing off the tiles, I moved quickly.

I pulled the gym bag from behind the bedroom chair and unzipped it, making sure everything I needed was there. Laptop. Chargers. Socks. Hard drive. Grandpa’s watch. A printed copy of my birth certificate. The deed to the old motorcycle I kept in Ava’s garage.

I slid my hand into the drawer of the nightstand and pulled out the small stack of cash I kept there because I never fully trusted any man who said “you don’t need to carry cash, you have me.” The bills went into the side pocket of the bag.

Then I walked it quietly out to the van, parked in its usual spot on the street. The rain had stopped, leaving the asphalt slick and reflective. I tucked the bag behind the front seat, a dark lump in the shadows, closed the door, and went back upstairs.

By the time he stepped out of the bathroom, towel slung around his neck, I was curled up on the couch with a blanket and my work email open on my phone.

“What are you wearing tomorrow?” he asked from the doorway, hair damp, skin flushed from the heat.

“Probably that navy shirt,” I said. “Jeans.”

He smiled, like that answer meant more than it should.

“Good,” he said. “I want us to look like a team.”

I smiled back, thin and distant.

“We will,” I said. “For sure.”

Saturday came bright and cold, Seattle doing its best imitation of sunshine stretched thin over a city still shaking off winter. The light leaking into our bedroom was harsh in a way that made everything feel too clear.

Carter was already up when I opened my eyes. I could hear him in the kitchen, cabinets opening and closing, the soft thud of bottle against counter. I brushed my teeth, pulled my hair into a low knot, and watched myself in the mirror for a moment.

I looked like someone about to host a party, not someone planning to burn down the version of her life everyone else thought she was living.

At 3:45 p.m., the apartment was staged. Sliders warmed in the oven. Wine chilled in the fridge. Every coaster was spaced like it had been measured with a ruler. The twinkle lights cast a soft glow over the living room, smoothing out the edges of furniture we’d once chosen together.

“This looks amazing, right?” Carter said, walking past with a bundle of napkins. “Everyone’s going to love this.”

He adjusted a lamp that didn’t need adjusting.

“It’s definitely going to be memorable,” I said.

At 4:00, the first knock came. His UX colleagues—two guys in ironic t-shirts and a woman in a jumpsuit that probably cost more than my entire wardrobe—poured in with six-packs and loud compliments.

“Dude,” one of them laughed, looking around. “This place screams curated domestic bliss.”

Carter’s arm landed around my shoulders like a ribbon draped over a prize.

“That’s Reagan,” he said. “Brains and hands. She works with robotics. Fixes things for a living.”

I pressed a piece of Brie into place on the board and smiled.

“Too bad she can’t fix certain social cues,” I murmured.

He chuckled, just a little too loudly, and steered the conversation toward the beers he’d picked out.

Maya and Sierra arrived twenty minutes later, carrying a bouquet of grocery-store flowers and craft beer. Sierra leaned in as she handed me the flowers, her lips close to my ear.

“Why does this feel like his party, not yours?” she whispered.

I placed the flowers into a vase, watching the water rise to meet their stems.

“Because it is,” I said.

She pulled back, eyebrows knitting.

“What does that mean?”

I looked at her, eyes steady.

“Stay alert,” I said. “You’ll understand soon.”

Carter breezed by just then, phone in hand, cheeks slightly flushed.

“Nicole says she’s five minutes out,” he said, eyes bright. “She got the Pinot you like.”

I folded a napkin into a precise square.

“How thoughtful of her,” I replied.

“You’re being really chill,” he said, pausing. “Like, I’m impressed.”

I brushed crumbs off the table.

“You asked for mature,” I reminded him. “I’m giving you mature.”

He laughed uneasily.

“Well, it’s working,” he said. “You’re being incredible tonight.”

I nodded.

“I’m glad you think so.”

The room filled slowly: coworkers, neighbors, a couple from his intramural soccer team who always arrived as a matching set. The soundtrack shifted from background noise to something more intentional. Conversations layered over one another, the air thick with perfume and craft beer and the faint scent of sliders threatening to burn in the oven.

“Reagan,” Sierra hissed at my elbow as I lined up crackers. “What are you planning?”

I set the tray down, smoothed one palm over my shirt, and met her gaze.

“Nothing,” I said calmly. “I’m just letting the room fill before I open the last door.”

At 4:54, the doorbell rang.

It sounded louder than it had all day, a sharp ding that sliced through the music and laughter and pinned everyone in place for a fraction of a second.

Carter looked up from the corner where he’d been explaining his playlist choices to someone who didn’t care, smoothed his shirt, and took half a step forward.

“I’ll get it,” he said.

I was already moving.

“No,” I said, voice even. “I’ve got it.”

Our eyes met for a heartbeat. Something flickered there—a flash of confusion, maybe, or the first hint that his script wasn’t going to go exactly as planned. Then I turned away, hand closing around the doorknob.

I opened the door.

Her perfume hit me first. It smelled like downtown department stores and champagne and intention. Behind it came the heels—sleek, pointed, black leather—that had clicked their way up three flights of stairs without slowing.

“Hey,” she said, holding up the two bottles like gifts at an altar. “Reagan, right? I’ve heard a lot about you. This place looks amazing.”

Her smile was wide and camera-ready, the kind of smile that said she’d already decided how this night would go.

I took her hand, held it firmly, and leaned in just enough that my words wouldn’t be mistaken for anything but what they were.

“He’s yours now,” I said quietly. “I’m leaving.”

The shock showed first in her eyes, a tiny widening she couldn’t control. Then in the way her fingers stiffened around the necks of the wine bottles. The smile on her mouth stayed—a half-second too long—before it crumpled at the edges like paper left out in the rain.

Behind me, the room reacted in ripples.

The group clustered near the kitchen fell silent one by one. Laughter died in the hallway. The music kept playing, but it suddenly sounded tinny and far away, like it belonged to another apartment in another building in another city.

I didn’t turn around.

I watched Nicole’s perfectly lined mouth open like she was about to say something clever, some version of “Oh, we’re just friends” or “This is a misunderstanding.”

Nothing came out.

Somewhere behind me, Carter stopped breathing.

I could feel him at my back, his presence a solid weight in the doorway between the life he’d been polishing and the truth I’d just smashed through it.

I let Nicole’s hand go.

I turned back into the apartment, walked to the coat rack, and slid on my navy jacket like I was getting ready to go out for a normal night instead of walking out of the life we’d been performing.

“Thank you all for coming,” I said, pitching my voice just loud enough to carry over the stunned quiet. “Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

I didn’t wait for replies.

Sierra stepped aside, eyes wide, lips pressed together like she was holding in an entire monologue. Maya’s hand was already halfway to her pocket where she kept her phone, as if she’d known this was going to be worth recording. One of Carter’s coworkers stared at me like I’d just grown a second head.

Nicole didn’t move.

Carter took a step forward, his hand lifting slightly, then dropping.

“Reagan—” he started.

I opened the door, stepped into the hallway, and let it close with that soft, final click.

The party didn’t end.

It expired.

I walked down the dimly lit stairwell without rushing, my boots thudding softly on each concrete step. It was important somehow that I didn’t run—that the building, the universe, and maybe even Carter understood that I was exiting, not fleeing.

Seattle’s air was cold when I stepped outside, the kind of chill that slipped under your coat and settled against your ribs. The sky was already dimming, streaks of pink fading behind distant cranes at the shipyard.

My van sat exactly where I’d left it. I opened the door, tossed my bag onto the passenger seat, and sank into the driver’s seat. For a moment, I just sat there, hands on the wheel, listening to my own breath.

My phone buzzed before I even turned the key.

Carter.

Six missed calls appeared in rapid succession, the notification bubble climbing each time I exhaled. Then the texts started.

Reagan what are you doing

Come back

That wasn’t funny

We need to talk

I stared at the screen, thumb hovering over the reply box.

“No,” I whispered. “We don’t.”

I locked the phone, started the engine, and pulled away from the curb. The apartment building shrank in the rearview mirror, shrinking from “home” to “location” in the span of a block.

Ava’s text came as I crossed under the freeway, the roar of cars overhead filling the cab.

You okay?

Better than I’ve been in months, I typed back.

Beers cold. Door’s unlocked, she replied.

Her place in Ballard was the opposite of mine—low, sprawling, always smelling faintly of motor oil and takeout. When I pulled into her driveway, she was already outside, leaning against her beat-up truck with two bottles in hand.

She didn’t ask anything when I stepped out of the van, just held one bottle out.

“That,” she said, “was ice cold.”

I laughed once, the sound coming out rougher than I intended.

“He didn’t see it coming,” I said, climbing onto the tailgate beside her. The metal was cool through my jeans. “No one did.”

She tipped her head back, looking up at the darkening sky.

“People like him never do,” she said. “They’re so used to assuming you’ll bend that they forget you know how to walk.”

My phone lit up again, screen flashing against the growing dark. A text from Sierra.

You detonated the entire room. He’s losing it. People are leaving. Nicole just walked out. You want details?

I handed the phone to Ava.

“She recorded it,” I said. “Maya, too.”

Ava whistled low.

“He tried to humiliate you,” she said. “You turned him into a ghost in his own apartment.”

Another ping. This time from Maya.

I recorded everything. Want me to send it?

Not yet, I typed. Just keep it safe.

More texts from Carter rolled in, each one more frantic than the last. Then came messages from numbers I didn’t recognize—probably his friends, maybe burner apps.

You’re overreacting

He didn’t cheat

We should talk

I exhaled slowly, thumb hovering over the block button.

“Disrespect doesn’t have to sleep with someone to count,” I muttered.

By the time the bottle in my hand was empty, I had blocked every number with his name on it from my phone.

You asked me to be mature, I typed in one last message. I was.

Then I hit send, blocked his number, and closed that door for good.

That night, I slept nine hours straight on Ava’s lumpy guest bed. No alarms. No half-awake dread. No listening for his key in the lock.

When I woke up, sunlight was spilling across the ceiling in wide stripes, and the space in my chest where tension usually lived felt… open.

“You’re still breathing,” Ava said from the doorway, holding two mugs of coffee. “Good sign.”

I sat up, hair a mess, eyes gritty, but lighter somehow.

“What’s the damage?” I asked, nodding at her phone on the table.

“Missed calls,” she said. “New numbers. Email. A few DMs. He’s in full ‘I didn’t think she’d actually leave’ mode.”

I opened my laptop at the kitchen table and logged into our shared utility account. The numbers glowed on the screen, cold and simple.

“I’m transferring my half of next month’s rent,” I said. “After that, he can figure it out.”

Ava watched me click through, her expression neither surprised nor impressed—just steady, like she’d known I could do this the whole time.

“You’re really doing it,” she said quietly. “No looking back.”

“He earned the silence,” I replied.

That afternoon, an email popped up from Carter. Subject line: Please don’t shut me out.

I clicked it, scanned the wall of text—half apology, half accusation. Phrases like you blindsided me and we’ve been through too much tangled with if you were really secure, you wouldn’t have felt threatened and you made me look bad in front of my friends.

I closed it without replying.

“He says I ruined everything,” I told Ava.

She snorted.

“He handed you the hammer and dared you to swing,” she said. “He ruined it himself. You just stopped pretending the structure was sound.”

Instagram DMs were next. One from him. Two from mutual acquaintances.

You can’t just throw away a relationship like that

He’s human, he made a mistake

He was just being honest

I blocked them one by one, each tap a clean cut.

By early evening, I’d removed him from every platform. No shared playlists. No archived stories. No algorithm nudging his face into my feed when I let my guard down.

“You good?” Ava asked, sprawling on the couch, one leg thrown over the back.

I shut my laptop and exhaled, feeling it all the way down to my toes.

“Clean,” I said. “Fully.”

She raised her mug in a slow salute.

“Good,” she said. “Now you get to find out who you are without all that noise.”

A month later, the apartment I was renting—on my own name, with my own account—felt more like home than the place I’d shared with Carter ever had.

The walls, once an indifferent off-white, were now a soft yellow I’d picked out myself at a hardware store in Ballard. Sunlight from the smaller windows bounced off it, making the entire room feel warmer than its square footage justified.

Ava sat cross-legged on the couch, cartons of Chinese takeout balanced on her knees, the smell of sesame and soy filling the air. I was on a step stool, carefully painting around the last outlet cover.

“You sure this is the same Reagan?” she asked, grinning. “I almost didn’t recognize you without the stress lines.”

I smiled faintly, dragging the brush across the wall in a slow, satisfying stroke.

“I think I’m just starting to breathe again,” I said.

On the counter sat a cardboard box with the Cascade Robotics logo stamped on the side. Inside were my new work materials—a badge, some manuals, and the official offer letter confirming my promotion. It had arrived in my inbox three days after I walked out of the party.

I climbed down from the stool, wiped my hands, and picked up my phone. The word Accept glowed on the screen, waiting.

“You’re going to take it, right?” Ava asked from the table, watching me carefully.

I thought about the old version of me—the one who would have run the decision by Carter first, weighed it against his schedule and his opinions, worried about whether he’d feel threatened by my success.

“It’s time to move forward,” I said.

I tapped Accept.

The world didn’t tilt. The earth didn’t shake. I just felt… right.

That night, I found myself back at the softball field I’d avoided for months. The air smelled like grass and dirt and cheap nachos. The field lights buzzed overhead as teams warmed up, their shouts echoing off the chain-link fencing.

Sierra spotted me first, waving from the bleachers.

“You came back,” she said as I walked over. “Told you you’d find your way.”

I shrugged, pulling my glove out of my bag. The leather fit my hand like it always had, molding to my fingers with familiar resistance.

“I’ve got a lot of catching up to do,” I said.

I stepped onto the field, took my position, and when the ball smacked into my glove with a satisfying thud, it sounded like home.

Later, sitting on Ava’s couch, I scrolled through one last message from Carter. It had come from an email address I hadn’t yet blocked.

You can’t just leave it like this. We’ve been through too much.

The words blurred slightly. Not because I was tempted, but because I remembered the version of myself who would have.

Ava leaned against the kitchen counter, watching me, but not hovering.

“Anything left to say?” she asked.

I tapped the screen, deleting his message, then opened a new one.

You wanted me to be mature, I typed. I was. Now it’s over.

I hit send. No hesitation. No second draft.

Ava’s phone buzzed a minute later. She glanced down, then back at me.

“He’s asking if you’ll at least talk to him,” she said. “One conversation.”

I set my phone down on the coffee table and stood up.

“There’s nothing left to say,” I said. “He heard me the first time. He just didn’t think I meant it.”

We walked to the window. The Seattle skyline cut the night in harsh, sharp lines, lights from office towers flickering against the black. Somewhere in one of those buildings, no doubt, someone else was having a conversation about being “mature.”

“No more games,” I said.

Ava clinked her beer bottle against mine.

“Here’s to new beginnings,” she said.

“To the future,” I replied, watching the city lights stretch into the distance, feeling—for the first time in a long time—like I actually had one that belonged entirely to me.