The moment Austin said it, the living room went so still it felt staged—like someone had paused the entire apartment with one finger, leaving the glow of the TV suspended in mid-air and my hand frozen around the remote.

“My name is Naomi Blake,” I would tell anyone later who asked why I didn’t explode. “I’m twenty-nine. And that night I learned silence can be a boundary you draw in your own chest.”

Austin stepped in front of the screen like he was cutting into a scene that didn’t belong to him. The flicker of a sitcom haloed his shoulders, soft and harmless, while his face tried on seriousness the way he tried on everything else—like a costume, like something you borrowed for the effect.

“I need to tell you something important,” he said, eyes wide, voice heavy. The kind of delivery that usually comes with hospital calls or car accidents.

For one sharp second, I honestly thought someone had died.

“Okay,” I said. My voice came out flat. “Tell me.”

He inhaled like a man about to confess a war crime. Then he released it as if it were wisdom.

“I’m going on a self-discovery retreat with Gabby.”

He let the name hover between us.

Gabby. The college ex. The one whose photos still lived in his Instagram like ghosts he claimed he “forgot” to delete. The woman who “really understood his artistic soul,” as he liked to announce whenever he’d had one and a half IPAs and an audience.

I blinked once. Then I repeated, just to make sure I’d heard him correctly.

“You’re going on a self-discovery retreat… with Gabby.”

“It’s a spiritual center,” he rushed on, mistaking my calm for consent. “Two weeks. Meditation. Journaling. Healing circles. Really deep work.”

I nodded like I was listening to a weather report.

“We got a group discount,” I said, and took a sip of my beer, letting the cold bite my tongue. “For you and your ex-girlfriend.”

He flinched like I’d insulted his aura.

“Don’t do that, Naomi. It’s not about her. We’re just friends now. She’s going through things too. This is about my journey.”

My journey.

I muted the TV and set the remote down carefully, as if a sudden movement might shatter whatever was holding my expression in place.

“When?” I asked.

“Next week. Tuesday morning flight.”

So, I thought, Tuesday. He was announcing it like a dentist appointment.

“So you’re going on a two-week retreat,” I said slowly, “with your ex. Just the two of you. And you want me to be… supportive.”

His face brightened, relief blooming like he’d passed a test.

“Exactly. See? This is why I love you. You get it.”

No, I thought. This is why you think you can do anything and call it growth.

Out loud I only asked, “And where do I fit into this journey of yours?”

He drew a breath like he was about to deliver a TED Talk.

“You trusting me is part of my spiritual growth.”

I stared at him.

“Your spiritual growth,” I repeated, because sometimes repeating a sentence is the only way to hear how ridiculous it sounds.

“Yeah.” He smiled softly, beatific, like a man auditioning for sainthood. “Naomi, you know how stuck I’ve felt. My jewelry business. My energy. My blocked third eye. I need this reset. Gabby just happens to be on a similar path.”

Her name again. Gabby just happens.

Inside me, something went very, very quiet. Not numb—quiet. Like the snap of a chalk line. That little suspended heartbeat where the dust is still in the air, then settles into a straight, undeniable boundary.

On one side: the life I’d been living—me orbiting his moods, his “missions,” his never-ending emergencies disguised as enlightenment.

On the other side: the life I was about to choose.

“Sounds great,” I said.

He blinked, suspicious. “Really?”

“Sure,” I said. “When do you leave?”

He searched my face for the trapdoor. “Tuesday morning. Like I said. You’re really okay with this?”

“Austin,” I said softly, and watched his shoulders drop in gratitude, “if you need to find yourself… who am I to stop you?”

He looked genuinely moved. He crossed the room and kissed my forehead like I was a well-trained golden retriever.

“You’re so evolved,” he whispered. “This is why we work.”

Evolved, I thought.

Right.

The next three days became a montage of Austin’s version of preparation: new yoga pants shipped overnight, a fresh journal with ASCENSION embossed on the cover, nonrefundable retreat fees, and hours of monologues about chakras and inner children and the way “the universe was finally opening a door.”

I nodded in the right places. I asked just enough questions to keep him talking. And in the spaces between his sentences, I started quietly planning my own retreat—from him.

Austin didn’t know one very important thing. Not because it was hidden, but because he’d never cared enough to ask.

The lease was in my name.

He’d moved into my apartment eight months earlier with two suitcases, a box of crystals, and a bin full of inventory for his “spiritual jewelry business”—beaded bracelets, tarnished chains, little tags that promised “alignment” in fonts that looked like they’d been blessed by a Pinterest board.

We never got around to adding his name to the lease. The utilities were in my name. The furniture was ninety percent mine. Even the “succulent collection” he curated on Instagram as proof of his “green aura” had been purchased with my credit card, because he always “forgot” his wallet in moments that mattered.

Monday, while he was getting his aura cleansed at an overpriced spa across town, I slipped out of my office on my lunch break and signed paperwork at a different complex on the other side of the city. Smaller. Better water pressure. No altar on the kitchen counter. No incense smoke clinging to the curtains like a warning sign.

By Tuesday morning, the chalk line inside me had settled.

There was my old life: me revolving around Austin’s latest spiritual emergency.

And there was the new one: me not doing that.

At Austin-Bergstrom, at the curb where cars idled and TSA announcements echoed through glass, he hugged me quickly, already scanning for his gate like the world might steal his destiny if he looked away.

“Two weeks will fly by,” he said. “I’ll have limited phone access, so don’t worry if I don’t text much.”

“I won’t,” I said.

He paused at that, like my words didn’t land the way he’d expected.

“You’re the best,” he said, and then, because Austin could never resist a dramatic ending, he added, “I’m going to come back a whole new man.”

“I’m sure you will,” I said.

He hoisted his duffel and his carefully curated soul-searching backpack.

“Love you,” he called over his shoulder.

I smiled and waved. “You too.”

I stayed long enough to watch him clear security, to see his silhouette vanish into the moving line of people chasing their own versions of escape. When he disappeared, I exhaled.

Then I drove straight to U-Haul.

It took two days to move. I’d already separated what was mine from what was his in my mind. Now I just translated the mental inventory into boxes.

Couch: mine.

Dishes: mostly mine.

The ugly macramé wall hanging he insisted “raised the vibration of the living room”: his. That stayed.

I was meticulous. I took only what my money—or my family’s—had paid for. Everything of his I left carefully stacked and labeled in the living room: crystals, altar cloths, ring light, tripod, boxes of Cosmic Current Jewelry that had sold exactly three bracelets in six months.

I even left the utilities on, because I wasn’t cruel. I was finished.

The note went on the kitchen counter, centered in the space he used to call “our sanctuary.”

Austin,

You went to find yourself. I decided to do the same.

Turns out I discovered I deserve a partner who doesn’t take his ex on a two-week retreat and expect me to fund the fallout.

Your things are in the living room. The lease ends in three weeks. Rick (the landlord) knows you may contact him to sign a new one in your name or move out.

I found myself, and the version of my life that includes me doesn’t include you.

Good luck with your chakras.

—Naomi

Once the last box was loaded into my new place and the old apartment keys were on Rick’s desk, I turned my phone face down on the counter and let silence settle over me like a warm, clean blanket.

For the first time in months, my home didn’t smell like incense, burned sage, or desperation. It smelled like nothing. Like fresh paint and laundry detergent and peace.

Five days later, my phone lit up like a storm warning.

I’d blocked Austin’s number. But I hadn’t blocked his email.

The first subject line hit my inbox at 3:17 p.m. on Wednesday.

WHAT IS THIS?

The message was frantic, words slamming together.

Naomi, this isn’t funny. I came back early because the retreat was a disaster, and you’re gone. All my stuff is in piles. The landlord says I have to sign a lease. I can’t afford this place alone. This is manipulative and cruel. Where are you?

Oh, he came back early.

The second email arrived an hour later.

You’re trying to control me with money. This is toxic. Gabby says normal people talk things out.

Gabby says.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I texted Luke, my friend who still lived in my old building.

You seen Austin today?

The dots appeared almost immediately.

Oh man. You moved out, didn’t you?

Yep.

Luke called. I put him on speaker while I unpacked dishes in my new kitchen.

“He showed up last night,” Luke said. “With Gabby. Because of course he did. They spent an hour dragging boxes around and arguing. I heard him yelling to his mom on the phone about how you stole his apartment.”

“His apartment,” I repeated, stacking plates.

“Wait, it gets better,” Luke said. “I overheard Gabby on the phone in the hallway with some guy named Dylan. Apparently her boyfriend. He found out about the retreat from her Instagram. Sunset pics, vague captions about healing. He lost it. That’s why they bailed after like five days.”

I let myself smile, just a little.

“So the self-discovery trip lasted less than a week,” I said.

“Yep. She was crying about Dylan. He was crying about rent. And I was just trying to get to my mailbox.”

After we hung up, I checked my email again.

A new sender had joined the storm.

Deb.

Subject line blazing: HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO MY SON?

I opened it.

Naomi, I can’t believe you would abandon Austin this way. He came home early because he was so distressed and you left him without a home. He is devastated. He told me you were jealous of his connection with Gabby. You are being petty and cruel. He has invested so much of himself in this relationship. He was planning to propose to you one day. You’ve thrown away something beautiful because of your pride. Call me.

—Deb

I stared at the screen for a long moment, then closed the email without replying.

Left him without a home.

He was in an apartment full of his things with three weeks of paid rent. The only thing he didn’t have was my name on the lease and my money in the bank account he treated like a shared resource.

I walked to my fridge, poured myself a glass of cold water, and looked at my new keys glinting on the counter—solid, simple, mine.

The chalk line in my chest felt steadier than ever.

By Friday morning, the silence started humming again—not inside me, but from my phone.

First came a flood of password reset notifications.

Netflix. Hulu. Max. Disney+—which actually made me laugh out loud, because Austin used to call Disney “capitalist nostalgia” while watching Marvel movies on my subscription.

He was trying to get into my streaming accounts from wherever he’d landed—someone’s couch, some hotel, some “mystical safe house” he’d decided was temporary shelter.

So I changed every password to a new variation of the same phrase.

FindYourOwnNetflix.

Five minutes later, a text from an unknown number appeared.

Austin wants to know why you’re being so petty about the streaming services. He’s spiraling.

I typed back, Tell him meditation might help.

I didn’t block the number. Watching him scramble felt like poetic justice. Not cruel. Balanced. Like the universe was finally keeping score.

But Austin didn’t believe in balance. Austin believed in escalation.

The next day, I walked out of my gym and saw him leaning against my car like a man rehearsing a confrontation.

He looked rough. Beard half-grown. Clothes wrinkled. A tote bag slung over one shoulder that read SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL EMPATH in bold letters, like irony had been permanently banned from his bloodstream.

“We need to talk,” he said.

I adjusted my gym bag. “About what?”

“You can’t just ignore me,” he said. “We were together for three years.”

“Eight months,” I corrected, unlocking my door.

“The emotional connection was three years,” he countered, as if math bent to his feelings.

I stared at him. “What does that even mean?”

He stepped closer. “Naomi, I get it. You heard about Gabby, but nothing happened.”

“Okay.”

“We meditated. We journaled. We talked about our feelings.”

“Sounds magical.”

“Stop being sarcastic,” he snapped. “This is serious. I need a place to live.”

“Then get one.”

He blinked, stunned. “You know I can’t afford anything right now. My business—”

“Sold three bracelets,” I finished for him. “I know.”

“That’s not fair,” he said, voice rising.

“It’s also not my problem anymore.”

His expression shifted from pleading to calculating. He was always quicker at pivoting than he was at apologizing.

“If you ever loved me,” he said, “you’ll help me.”

I leaned against my door, cool metal under my palm. “I did love you,” I said. “And then you booked a romantic trip with your ex.”

“It wasn’t romantic.”

Right on cue, a dented Honda Civic rolled up to the curb. Gabby stepped out barefoot in sandals, wearing a linen jumpsuit that probably cost more than my monthly rent. She held a smoothie with a label that said KARMA CLEANSE.

Her hair was perfect. Of course it was.

She waved awkwardly. “Hey, Naomi.”

I smiled politely. “Gabby.”

Austin flinched. “I told her to wait in the car.”

“Seems she didn’t,” I said.

Gabby shifted her smoothie from one hand to the other, like she could physically pass this mess to someone else. “I think we should all talk like adults.”

“That’s ironic,” I said.

Austin scowled. “Can you not?”

“No,” I said, and opened my car door.

Before I could close it, Gabby blurted, “This isn’t what it looks like. Austin was just helping me process some trauma.”

I paused. Looked at her. Looked back at Austin.

“Was his mouth involved?” I asked.

Gabby’s lips parted, stunned.

Austin groaned. “Naomi, please.”

I slid into the driver’s seat. “Good luck processing,” I said.

Austin reached for the door before I shut it. “You can’t keep running away from hard conversations.”

I looked at him, my heart calm in a way that would’ve terrified my past self.

“Austin,” I said softly, “some of us run toward peace. Big difference.”

Then I closed the door and drove away, his open-mouthed indignation shrinking in the rearview mirror like a tantrum losing oxygen.

Saturday morning, I woke up to my doorbell.

Not a polite ring. Not a normal knock.

Five straight minutes of insistence.

When I checked my camera, I saw what looked like a low-budget parade.

Austin. His mother, Deb. His sister, Quinn. Gabby again. And a woman I didn’t recognize holding a clipboard like she was about to conduct an intervention sponsored by Etsy.

A U-Haul idled behind them like the apocalypse had been outsourced.

I pressed the intercom. “Can I help you?”

Deb jumped in immediately, voice sharp enough to cut glass.

“Naomi, you need to stop this nonsense and talk to my son face to face.”

“I did,” I said. “He was in the parking lot yesterday.”

“That wasn’t a conversation,” Deb snapped. “That was cruelty.”

“Then this must be comedy,” I said.

Quinn stepped forward, arms crossed. “You’re destroying his life over your ego.”

“His life isn’t destroyed,” I said. “He’s just facing consequences.”

The unknown woman tilted her head, smiling in a way that didn’t reach her eyes. “Energetically, this feels really negative.”

I squinted at her. “You must be Piper.”

Her eyebrows jumped. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Only from Austin’s business emails,” I said. “You’re the one who signs off ‘in alignment’.”

Piper’s smile wobbled. “Well, don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?”

I smiled sweetly. “You know what else is energetically negative? Booking a getaway with your ex.”

Behind them, Austin muttered something to Gabby. Then he did the dumbest thing possible.

He tried my door handle.

“Dude,” I said through the intercom, “I’m recording this. Stop or I call the police.”

He froze, then glared up at the camera like I’d betrayed him by using reality.

“You wouldn’t,” he said.

Deb shoved forward. “Naomi, you are so heartless after everything he’s done for you.”

“Like what?” I asked. “Like moving into my apartment and letting me pay one hundred percent of the bills?”

“That’s not the point,” Deb barked.

“Then maybe find one,” I said.

Gabby shifted behind them, suddenly fascinated by the sidewalk. Quinn whispered something into Deb’s ear that made Deb gasp theatrically. Piper began murmuring about “releasing toxic vibrations,” like she was hosting a wellness retreat at my front door.

I almost admired the choreography. Chaos as a group project.

Finally, Austin snapped, voice booming for the benefit of his audience.

“I gave you everything, Naomi! I decorated your apartment. I cooked for you. I made you a better person!”

I laughed, genuinely.

“You decorated with my money,” I said. “You cooked twice. And the only thing you made me was tired.”

“You’re being vindictive!”

“I’m being gone,” I said.

That shut them up for a second, the way truth always does—briefly, before people try to argue with it.

“Good luck, Austin,” I added. “And Deb? Tell your son the lease ends in two weeks. Rick is waiting for his decision.”

Then I disconnected the call.

Five minutes later, the U-Haul drove off.

My phone buzzed with an email notification.

Subject line: BUSINESS PROPOSAL.

I opened it, half expecting a prank.

Naomi, I know emotions are high right now, but I’d like to make you an offer that benefits us both. I’m seeking investors for Cosmic Current Jewelry. With your financial contribution, I can focus on creation without the stress of rent. In exchange, you’d receive 10% equity. This is your chance to show you still believe in something bigger than yourself.

—Austin

The investment amount he requested was exactly three months of rent.

I stared at the screen, then forwarded it to Luke.

He replied one line.

Is he okay?

I typed back, Probably on essential oils.

Then I shut my laptop and laughed until it hurt, the kind of laugh that comes when you finally realize the thing that used to control your life has no power outside your kindness.

By Monday morning, I thought the storm had exhausted itself.

Austin didn’t do exhaustion. He did reinvention.

I woke up to a dozen LinkedIn notifications. At first, I assumed spam. Then I read the subject lines.

Cosmic Current Jewelry is expanding. Join the journey.

Naomi’s ex invites you to invest in wearable enlightenment.

He had messaged every single one of my professional contacts. My boss. My clients. My college mentor. Even the recruiter who ghosted me in 2019.

The message was always the same, crafted like a press release with a bruised ego behind it:

Hi, I’m Austin Blake, founder of Cosmic Current Jewelry, and I believe business and personal life should stay separate. Despite my recent breakup with Naomi, I still value her professional circles’ energy. Would you like to support a conscious entrepreneur redefining modern spirituality?

At noon, my boss texted me: Your ex is… interesting. Should we invest?

I replied: Only if you want to lose money creatively.

Austin escalated again, because of course he did.

By Tuesday, someone sent me a screenshot of a GoFundMe.

The title read like satire: Help a spiritual entrepreneur escape financial oppression.

The description painted him as a misunderstood visionary “controlled” by a woman who “suppressed his creative spirit” and “abandoned him during a crisis.”

His goal was twenty-five thousand dollars.

The amount raised was thirty-seven.

All from Deb.

Friends began messaging me screenshots like it was a new Netflix show and they needed my commentary.

Is this performance art?

He’s marketing heartbreak like a subscription service.

Even Dylan—the boyfriend Gabby clearly had while “finding herself”—sent me a DM:

Sorry about Austin. Dude’s wild. Gabby says he’s been burning sage in my garage.

I didn’t respond. Some messes don’t need your hands on them. They just need time and gravity.

Then Wednesday arrived with a pale envelope stamped CIVIL DIVISION.

Austin had filed a claim representing himself, seeking what he called “domestic partnership compensation.” Apparently he’d spent a few hours on Google, learned a handful of legal phrases, and decided we had something he could invoice.

The claim stated: Eight months of cohabitation, mutual support, and spiritual merging.

Spiritual merging.

I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

Still, I showed up to court, because I wasn’t going to let him twist the narrative unchecked. This was America. If someone wanted to audition in public, the least I could do was show up for the closing act.

At the Travis County courthouse, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they’d seen every version of human nonsense and were tired of it. The air smelled faintly of old paper and cheap coffee. People in suits moved with purpose. People without them moved with fear.

When the clerk called his name, Austin strutted forward in a white linen shirt, barefoot in sandals, holding a crystal instead of a folder.

“Your Honor,” he began, standing tall like a man in a documentary, “this isn’t about money. It’s about energy exchange.”

The judge blinked.

“Energy exchange,” she repeated, like she was buying time to decide if she’d heard him correctly.

“Yes,” Austin said, voice trembling with misplaced sincerity. “Naomi and I shared a sacred domestic bond. I deserve compensation for the emotional labor of loving someone who refused to evolve.”

The judge turned to me. “Ms. Blake, how long did you live together?”

“Eight months,” I said. “Your Honor.”

“And during that time,” the judge asked, “were you financially supporting him?”

“Yes,” I said. “Entirely.”

The judge sighed—not dramatic, just tired in the specific way someone gets when their job is to translate nonsense into order.

“And he filed this claim while traveling with his ex-girlfriend,” she said, “on a retreat.”

“Yes,” I said.

She lowered her glasses. “Case dismissed with prejudice.”

Austin’s mouth dropped open.

“Wait—Your Honor—”

“Sir,” the judge said, flatly, “you may leave the crystal on my desk if it helps you move on.”

He clutched it tighter, offended on behalf of the universe.

“This is sacred,” he muttered.

“Then take it outside,” she replied, and banged the gavel like punctuation.

I walked out before laughter betrayed me.

Outside, Piper was waiting with her phone raised, filming Austin on the courthouse steps like he was about to lead a movement.

“Tell your truth,” she urged.

Austin nodded gravely, facing the camera like a prophet in crisis.

“This is what oppression of spiritual men looks like,” he declared. “Society fears male vulnerability.”

“So powerful,” Piper murmured, adjusting a filter.

The video went online that afternoon. It got a handful of views and a handful of likes—most of them from Deb’s accounts, because some families don’t do support, they do amplification.

By Thursday morning, Rick called me.

“Naomi,” he said, voice carrying the specific exhaustion reserved for landlords who have been spiritually harassed. “Your ex is trying to squat in the apartment.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “He what?”

“He changed the locks,” Rick said. “Says he has tenant rights. I called the police, but he’s waving around a printed lease agreement. It’s obviously fake. He spelled his own name wrong.”

Of course he did.

“He also set up a small altar in the living room,” Rick added, “and says the apartment has chosen him as its guardian. I can’t tell if that’s religion or delusion.”

I looked around my new apartment. Quiet. Clean. Sunlight warming the floorboards. A life that didn’t require explaining itself.

“Rick,” I said, “the utilities are still in my name, right?”

“Yeah,” he said. “You left them running.”

“Not anymore,” I replied. “Shut them off.”

Thirty minutes later, the power went out.

An hour after that, my phone rang from an unknown number.

I answered already smiling. “Hello?”

“This is Quinn,” came a furious voice. “Turn the power back on right now.”

I leaned against the counter. “Who is this again?”

“You know who this is,” she snapped. “Austin is in that apartment with no electricity. You can’t do this.”

“I can,” I said. “My name is on the bill. He’s occupying a space he doesn’t have legal rights to. Maybe he should try candlelight meditation.”

“He’s trying to run his business,” Quinn said. “He has orders to fulfill.”

“Orders,” I repeated, tasting the word. “As in the three bracelets.”

Silence.

“That’s not the point,” she said finally, and hung up.

The next day, Rick called again, sounding brighter.

“Police removed him this morning,” he said. “He tried to claim you were his landlord and that he’d paid you rent. Couldn’t produce a single receipt.”

I exhaled, relief washing through me like clean water.

“Is he… okay?” I asked, because I wasn’t heartless. I was just done.

Rick chuckled. “Define okay. He yelled something about Mercury being in microwave and tried to sage the officers. They were… patient.”

I covered my mouth to hide my laugh. “I think he meant retrograde.”

“Whatever he meant,” Rick said, “he’s gone. Apartment’s back to normal.”

“Good,” I said softly. “It deserves better energy.”

Two weeks later, updates trickled in through Luke like gossip from the universe.

Austin had moved back in with his parents. Not with Quinn—she’d finally blocked him after the microwave incident. Not with Gabby—she vanished from his posts entirely once the retreat fallout settled into reality.

No. Austin was back in his childhood bedroom, rebranding regression as a “sabbatical from capitalism.” His Instagram bio read: Survivor. Visionary. Cosmic warrior on pause.

He was still trying to sell jewelry, now bundled with “affirmation oils.” Piper accidentally revealed in a comment that the oils were relabeled bottles from the dollar store. Someone asked if they were officially tested. Austin replied: I don’t subscribe to governmental oversight of natural healing.

Deb liked the post.

Gabby resurfaced too. Back with Dylan, if their cryptic “working on us” captions meant anything. They tagged each other in passive-aggressive memes about forgiveness and growth. Honestly, they seemed perfect for each other—two people using spirituality as a soft-focus filter over bad decisions.

One Friday night, Luke texted me:

Guess who I just saw at the bar?

Before I could respond, he sent a photo.

Austin, half-drunk, surrounded by empty shot glasses and half-lit candles from a clearance rack, looking like a man who’d tried to summon enlightenment and got a hangover instead.

Luke called an hour later, laughing so hard he could barely speak.

“Naomi,” he wheezed, “Austin tried to bro-hug me. Said he’s sorry for everything the universe put between you two.”

“The universe,” I repeated, smiling.

“Then,” Luke said, “he told the bartender he’s delivering pizzas now because it’s the most grounding job imaginable.”

“Grounding,” I echoed, and shook my head.

“And he says he’s launching a podcast about spiritual breakups,” Luke finished. “He wants to monetize closure.”

“Perfect,” I said. “Let him.”

Later that night, curled up on my couch with a glass of wine, I opened my laptop and saw one last email.

From Deb.

I hope you’re happy. My son is devastated. He truly thought you were the one. He was even planning to propose on that retreat, with Gabby’s help to pick out rings. You threw away something beautiful because of your pride.

I stared at the screen.

He was going to propose… on a trip with his ex… who was going to help him pick out rings.

For the first time in weeks, I laughed so hard I cried. The kind of laugh that shakes something loose in your ribs, the kind that feels like your body finally releasing a story it carried too long.

When I caught my breath, I deleted the email and poured myself another glass.

A few weeks later, I met someone new.

Ethan.

Funny. Grounded. Normal in a way that felt suspicious at first, like maybe the other shoe was always supposed to drop and I just hadn’t found it yet.

We met at a resident mixer in my new building, where the biggest drama was whether the hummus was homemade or store-bought. Nobody talked about chakras. Nobody tried to sell me enlightenment in bracelet form. Nobody asked me to “hold space” for their journey while they stepped all over mine.

On our second date, over coffee, I told Ethan the short version. I kept it tight. I kept it clean. I kept it honest.

When I reached the part about Austin changing the locks, Ethan snorted so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

“Did he really say Mercury was in microwave?” he asked, eyes watering.

“He did,” I said.

“That’s kind of iconic,” Ethan said, grinning.

I smiled, and it felt easy.

“You have no idea,” I said.

Sometimes I thought about Austin—not with anger anymore, just curiosity. How someone could talk endlessly about self-discovery and never once look inward. He went searching for enlightenment and found eviction notices.

I went searching for peace and found it in small, ordinary things: sunlight on the floorboards, cold coffee in the morning, keys that only opened doors I chose.

The truth is, I didn’t need to discover myself.

I just needed to stop letting someone else define what peace should look like.

So when Ethan joked one night, “Want to take a self-discovery trip? Just us?” I laughed.

And for the first time, it didn’t sound like a warning.

It sounded like a life.

The first time I heard Austin say he was “doing the work,” I believed him.

That was my original mistake.

Because for Austin, “the work” wasn’t about becoming better. It was about sounding better. Saying the right words in the right tone so people would mistake performance for progress. And for a long time, I played along—not because I was naïve, but because I was tired. Tired people will accept almost anything if it arrives wrapped in calm music and a promise.

By the time he came back early from his little two-person “healing retreat” with Gabby, I had already moved my entire life across town and into a smaller apartment that felt like a clean inhale.

But I hadn’t anticipated Austin’s second form.

I’d seen him as a boyfriend. I’d survived him as a roommate. I’d outgrown him as a mistake.

I wasn’t prepared for him as a campaign.

It started the way disasters always do in America—quiet, digital, and creeping through the cracks of your routine like smoke.

My phone buzzed with password reset notifications while I was waiting for my coffee to brew. The screen lit up again and again:

Netflix. Hulu. Max. Disney+.

Disney+ was the one that made me laugh, a sharp little sound in my empty kitchen. Austin used to mock Disney, called it “corporate nostalgia” while he watched my account like a monk judging sinners from inside their own house.

I didn’t panic. I didn’t call him. I didn’t beg.

I changed every password like I was sealing doors in a storm.

Then I made the new password the same message, over and over, in different variations, because sometimes you have to speak a language people like Austin understand.

FIND YOUR OWN NETFLIX.

Five minutes later, a text came in from an unknown number.

Austin wants to know why you’re being petty about the streaming services. He’s spiraling.

Spiraling.

I could practically hear Gabby saying it, the way she’d always sounded like she was narrating a candle commercial.

I typed back: Tell him meditation might help.

Then I set my phone down and watched the coffee drip slowly into the pot, as if it belonged to someone else’s life.

For about six hours, things stayed quiet.

Then Austin showed up.

Not at my old place. He couldn’t. He didn’t have access anymore.

He showed up where he could corner me—like a man who’d studied my schedule and decided boundaries were just suggestions.

I walked out of my gym and there he was, leaning against my car, trying to look casual in the same way a raccoon tries to look innocent while standing in your trash can.

He looked worse than I expected. Beard half grown. Eyes too bright. Clothes wrinkled. A tote bag hanging off his shoulder that said SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL EMPATH, like irony had been outlawed in his bloodstream.

“We need to talk,” he said, before I could even unlock my door.

“About what?” I asked.

“You can’t just ignore me,” he snapped. “We were together for three years.”

“Eight months,” I corrected, calm as a courtroom.

“The emotional connection was three years,” he insisted, as if he could rewrite time by feeling loudly enough.

“What does that even mean?” I asked.

He stepped closer, lowering his voice like we were in the middle of some tragic romance and not a parking lot that smelled like hot asphalt and protein shakes.

“Naomi, I get it,” he said. “You heard about Gabby, but nothing happened.”

“Okay,” I said, because I was no longer interested in giving him a scene.

“We meditated. We journaled. We talked about our feelings.”

“Sounds magical,” I replied.

“Stop being sarcastic,” he hissed. “This is serious. I need a place to live.”

Then say it, I thought. Say the real thing. Say the part where you want my money. Say the part where you want my life back because you can’t afford yours.

“Then get one,” I said.

He blinked like he’d never heard the word no without a spiritual disclaimer.

“You know I can’t afford anything right now,” he said. “My business—”

“Sold three bracelets,” I finished for him.

His face twitched. The mask slipped for half a second, revealing the truth under it: not heartbreak. Not loss. Entitlement.

“That’s not fair,” he said, voice rising.

“It’s also not my problem anymore.”

That’s when his expression changed.

Pleading to calculating. Like a switch.

“If you ever loved me,” he said, “you’ll help me.”

I leaned against my car door, the metal cool and steady under my hand. “I did love you,” I said. “And then you booked a romantic trip with your ex and called it growth.”

“It wasn’t romantic,” he snapped.

Right on cue, a dented Honda Civic rolled up beside us like the universe couldn’t resist a punchline.

Gabby stepped out.

Barefoot in sandals, linen jumpsuit that looked expensive, smoothie in hand with a label that read KARMA CLEANSE. Her hair was perfect in that way that made you feel like she owned a ring light and an entire personality built around lighting.

She waved awkwardly. “Hey Naomi.”

I smiled politely. “Gabby.”

Austin flinched. “I told her to wait in the car.”

“Seems she didn’t,” I said.

Gabby shifted her smoothie between hands like she could physically transfer responsibility. “I think we should all talk like adults.”

“That’s ironic,” I said.

Austin scowled. “Can you not?”

“No,” I replied, and opened my car door.

But Gabby blurted, fast, panicked—like she couldn’t handle being the villain in her own story.

“This isn’t what it looks like. Austin was just helping me process some trauma.”

I paused.

Looked at her.

Looked back at him.

“Was his mouth involved?” I asked.

Gabby froze, stunned.

Austin groaned like I’d ruined a sacred ritual. “Naomi, please.”

I slid into the driver’s seat. “Good luck processing,” I said.

Austin reached for the door before I could close it. “You can’t keep running away from hard conversations.”

I met his eyes through the window, my heart calm in a way that would’ve terrified my old self.

“Austin,” I said softly, “some of us run toward peace. Big difference.”

Then I shut the door and drove away.

In my rearview mirror, he shrank into a figure on hot pavement, jaw open, offended that I’d chosen reality over his narrative.

I thought that would be the end of it.

That was my second mistake.

Because Austin didn’t do endings. He did sequels.

Saturday morning, my doorbell rang.

Not a polite ring. Not a quick knock.

Five full minutes of relentless pressing, like whoever was out there believed they could force my door open with persistence alone.

I checked my camera.

And there they were.

Austin. His mother Deb. His sister Quinn. Gabby again. And a woman I didn’t recognize holding a clipboard like she was about to grade me.

A U-Haul sat idling behind them like a low-budget apocalypse.

I felt my stomach drop—not fear, not regret. Just the familiar disgust of realizing someone still thought they owned access to me.

I pressed the intercom.

“Can I help you?”

Deb jumped forward immediately, voice sharp enough to slice glass.

“Naomi, you need to stop this nonsense and talk to my son face to face.”

“I did,” I said. “He was in the parking lot yesterday.”

“That wasn’t a conversation,” Deb snapped. “That was cruelty.”

“Then this must be comedy,” I replied.

Quinn stepped in, arms crossed, wearing the expression of a woman who’d never once questioned her brother’s version of events.

“You’re destroying his life over your ego,” she said.

“His life isn’t destroyed,” I said. “He’s just facing consequences.”

Then the clipboard woman chimed in with a soft syrupy voice that made my skin crawl.

“Energetically,” she said, “this feels really negative.”

I stared at the screen, then tilted my head. “You must be Piper.”

Her eyebrows jumped. “You’ve heard of me?”

“Only from Austin’s business emails,” I said. “You’re the one who signs off ‘in alignment.’”

Piper’s smile wobbled. “Well… don’t you think you’re being a bit harsh?”

I smiled sweetly.

“You know what else is energetically negative?” I asked. “Booking a getaway with your ex.”

Behind them, Austin hissed something to Gabby. Then he did the dumbest thing possible.

He tried my door handle.

I leaned toward the intercom. “Dude. I’m recording this. Stop or I call the police.”

He froze, then looked up at the camera like I’d broken some unspoken rule.

“You wouldn’t,” he muttered.

Deb shoved forward, louder now, performing outrage like it was her job.

“Naomi, you are so heartless after everything he’s done for you!”

“Like what?” I asked. “Like moving into my apartment and letting me pay one hundred percent of the bills?”

“That’s not the point,” Deb barked.

“Then maybe find one,” I said.

Gabby shifted behind them, suddenly fascinated by the sidewalk. Quinn whispered something that made Deb gasp dramatically. Piper started talking about releasing toxic vibrations.

It was chaos, perfectly choreographed—five adults trying to bully one woman into reopening a door she’d already closed.

Finally Austin snapped, voice booming like he’d been waiting for his monologue.

“I gave you everything, Naomi! I decorated your apartment! I cooked for you! I made you a better person!”

I laughed.

Not a polite laugh. Not a nervous laugh.

A real laugh, sharp and uncontrollable.

“You decorated with my money,” I said. “You cooked twice. And the only thing you made me was tired.”

“You’re being vindictive!” he yelled.

“I’m being gone,” I said.

For a second, everyone went quiet.

Truth does that. It lands like a weight. It forces people to feel it before they can argue.

“Good luck, Austin,” I added, calm as ice. “And Deb? Tell your son the lease ends soon. The landlord is waiting for his decision.”

Then I disconnected.

Five minutes later, the U-Haul drove off.

My phone buzzed.

An email.

Subject line: BUSINESS PROPOSAL.

I stared at it like it was a threat written in corporate font.

I opened it.

Naomi, I know emotions are high right now, but I’d like to make you an offer that benefits us both. I’m seeking investors for Cosmic Current Jewelry. With your financial contribution, I can focus on creation without the stress of rent. In exchange, you’d receive 10% equity. This is your chance to show you still believe in something bigger than yourself.

—Austin

The amount he requested was exactly three months of rent.

I forwarded it to Luke.

He replied instantly.

Is he okay?

I typed back: Probably on essential oils.

Then I closed my laptop and laughed until my eyes watered.

Because suddenly, it was obvious.

Austin didn’t miss me.

He missed the version of his life where I paid for his delusions.

And the moment I stopped funding his fantasy, he had no idea how to exist in reality—so he did what people like him always do in this country when they lose control of a private audience.

He went public.

By Monday morning, my phone lit up with LinkedIn notifications like an alarm.

At first I thought it was spam.

Then I saw the messages.

Cosmic Current Jewelry is expanding. Join the journey.

Naomi’s ex invites you to invest in wearable enlightenment.

He’d messaged everyone.

My boss. My coworkers. My clients. My college mentor. Even the recruiter who ghosted me in 2019.

The message was polished, rehearsed, written like he was pitching on Shark Tank except the product was his ego:

Hi, I’m Austin Blake, founder of Cosmic Current Jewelry, and I believe business and personal life should stay separate. Despite my recent breakup with Naomi, I still value her professional circles’ energy. Would you like to support a conscious entrepreneur redefining modern spirituality?

By noon, my boss texted me:

Your ex is… interesting. Should we invest?

I replied: Only if you want to lose money creatively.

That should’ve been the peak.

But Austin had never met a bad idea he didn’t want to turn into a brand.

The next day, a GoFundMe started circulating.

Title: Help a spiritual entrepreneur escape financial oppression.

The description was pure fiction dressed up as victimhood. He claimed he’d been controlled, isolated, sabotaged, abandoned during a crisis.

Goal: $25,000.

Raised: $37.

All from Deb.

I stared at the screenshot a friend sent me and didn’t know whether to be angry or impressed. It was almost art—the confidence required to lie that boldly in public.

Friends began texting me reactions like they were live-commenting a reality show.

Is this performance art?

He’s marketing heartbreak like a subscription service.

Even Dylan—Gabby’s boyfriend, the one she apparently still had while “finding herself”—sent me a DM:

Sorry about Austin. Dude’s wild. Gabby says he’s burning sage in my garage.

I didn’t respond.

Some messes don’t need your energy. They need consequences.

And Austin was about to run headfirst into one, because on Wednesday, another envelope arrived.

Stamped CIVIL DIVISION.

He’d filed a claim against me representing himself, seeking what he called “domestic partnership compensation,” because apparently eight months of mooching had convinced him he was entitled to a payout.

The claim included the phrase:

“Spiritual merging.”

I laughed so hard I had to sit down.

But I still showed up to court.

Because in America, if someone wants to rewrite your story in public, you either let them—or you stand there in the fluorescent light and let the truth do what it always does.

End it.