Part 1 — The Confession

It started with the sound of the television—muted, flickering, whispering color against our apartment walls.
Ethan sat beside me, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed somewhere between the floor and the space just over my shoulder. His sweatshirt hem twisted between his fingers, loop after loop, a nervous ritual I’d always thought was endearing. That night, it made my stomach knot.

“Juliet,” he said finally, voice too soft to be kind. “I like you, but …I’m not in love with you.”

The words were almost gentle. Almost.

My brain didn’t register them at first. It was the way you hear a crash from two rooms away—your body reacts before meaning reaches you. My lungs forgot their job. Gravity tilted.

I managed a smile that felt foreign on my face. “Thanks for the clarification.”

He exhaled in relief. Relief. As if honesty were an act of mercy and I was the lucky recipient. He began to explain—how he still cared deeply, loved our home, loved the comfort we’d built. He just didn’t feel “that spark.” Maybe he never had.

The words rolled out smoothly, practiced. He’d rehearsed this.

“I don’t want us to break up,” he added quickly. “I love what we have. I just wanted to be honest.”

I nodded like a polite audience member. Inside, something splintered.

So this was the plan: he’d keep the dinners I cooked, the comfort of my arms, the convenience of stability—just minus the love that made it mean anything.

“Okay,” I said.

Just that. No tears. No scene. One word that sounded calm but carried a thousand detonations.

He smiled—actually smiled—like he’d just passed an emotional exam. Then he hugged me, soft and perfunctory, before settling back on the couch to unmute his show. The sound of canned laughter filled the room.

I didn’t join him.

I walked to our bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed, and stared at the ceiling until dawn painted it gray. Sleep refused me. His sentence kept looping in my head like a skipping record. He likes me, but he’s not in love with me. He wanted everything to stay the same—except the part that made it real.

By sunrise, my decision was carved clean.

If he wanted to treat me like a roommate he liked, then that’s exactly what I’d become.

Morning came with silence.
I didn’t kiss him good-bye. I didn’t text him during work. When he asked what I wanted for dinner, I said, “I’ll grab something on the way home.” Polite. Neutral. Not cold—just factual.

That afternoon I canceled the standing flower delivery I’d been keeping for him: twelve dollars a week for two years, daisies he sometimes noticed, sometimes didn’t. Why buy flowers for a roommate?

That evening he made dinner anyway. We ate like coworkers forced to share a table. When he leaned toward me on the couch afterward, I gave him a gentle side hug and moved to the armchair.

His eyes flickered with confusion, but he didn’t speak.

By Thursday, I deep-cleaned the apartment until it gleamed. Then I moved my things—makeup, toothbrush, pajamas—into the hall bathroom and the spare room he called his “office.” My bed. My desk. My door.

When he came home, I told him matter-of-factly, “We should each have our own space. Since we’re basically roommates who like each other.”

He blinked. “Roommates?”

“Well, yeah.” I shrugged. “You like me. I like you. We share living space. That’s what roommates do.”

He looked stricken, as if the mirror had turned on him. “We’re still together, Juliet. We’re still dating.”

“How does that work,” I asked, “if you’re not in love with me?”

He stammered something about how relationships evolve, how people stay together without passion, how comfort counts for something.

“That sounds like friendship with benefits,” I said, steady. “And I’m not interested in that arrangement.”

He fell silent. Panic crept into his face—the realization that his noble confession was becoming a trap of his own making.

Friday, he tried to fix it with gestures. He came home carrying takeout from my favorite Thai place—the one we saved for anniversaries. He set the table, lit candles, forced a smile.

“Thought we could have a nice evening,” he said hopefully.

I thanked him, ate my share, then split the bill with him on Venmo before heading to the gym.

On the treadmill, my phone buzzed again and again—fifteen messages in twenty minutes. Why are you being like this? We need to talk. Please come home so we can work this out.

I sent one reply: I thought you’d be happy. You were honest about your feelings, and I’m respecting them.

When I returned, he was pacing the living room, eyes red.

“You’re being petty,” he said. “Childish.”

“I’m just matching your energy,” I replied evenly. “You wanted a friend. You’ve got one. I’ll split bills, do chores, be pleasant company. But the girlfriend experience—the romance, the effort—that’s for someone who’s actually in love with me.”

That night he slept in our bed. I slept in mine.

The apartment was finally balanced—two strangers sharing oxygen and consequence.

And somewhere between the hum of the refrigerator and the soft tick of the wall clock, I realized: this wasn’t heartbreak.
It was reclamation beginning.

Part 2 — The Roommate Agreement

By Monday, Ethan’s words had begun to rot in the air between us —
I like you, but I’m not in love with you.
He had meant them as a moment of noble honesty, something that would earn him points for maturity.
Instead, they were a slow-acting poison, and I simply stopped being the antidote.

The first week after his confession, I learned how quiet revenge could be.

No slammed doors. No shouting matches.
Just the gentle click of emotional withdrawal.

When I left for work that morning, I didn’t leave a note.
No text with a heart emoji.
No “good luck with your meeting.”
Just the sound of the lock turning behind me.

At noon, my phone buzzed with a message:
Lunch later?
I stared at the text, then replied:
Already ate. Thanks.

Polite. Distant. Coworker energy.
Exactly what he’d said he wanted — “a relationship that feels comfortable.”

That evening, he’d made dinner again, overcompensating with garlic butter chicken and white wine chilled to perfection.
I sat down, ate my portion, thanked him, rinsed my plate, and put it into the dishwasher.
When he reached across the table to brush my hand, I pulled mine away as though it was instinct.
The look in his eyes was confusion blooming into panic — like a man realizing he’d built a cage and locked himself inside it.

By Wednesday, the apartment had shifted.
I could feel it in the air: less ours, more mine.

I’d stripped the bathroom of shared things — my shampoo, my lotions, my toothbrush — lined them neatly in the hall bathroom.
The spare room had transformed overnight into my office-slash-bedroom.
One lamp. One neatly made bed.
My desk glowed late into the night as I wrote in a small leather notebook — each entry a record of my resolve.

Ethan hovered in the doorway that first evening, his tone uncertain.
“Why’d you move your stuff?”

I didn’t look up. “I thought it made sense. Roommates usually have their own rooms.”

His jaw tensed. “You’re twisting my words.”

I finally met his gaze. “No. I’m honoring them.”

That shut him up.
He lingered a few seconds longer, then left. The sound of his retreating footsteps felt like air rushing back into a sealed space.

Thursday, I decided to make it official.

When he came home from work, I was sitting at the kitchen table with a notebook, pen poised.
“I think we should talk logistics,” I said.

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“Rent. Utilities. Groceries. Since we’re roommates who like each other, it’s only fair.”

His laugh came out sharp, disbelieving. “You can’t be serious.”

I wrote as he spoke — dividing the bills neatly down the middle, outlining due dates.

“This is ridiculous,” he muttered.

“Practical,” I corrected. “You wanted comfort without commitment. This is what comfort looks like when it’s not subsidized by love.”

When I finished, I tore the page from the notebook and slid it across the table.
“The roommate agreement,” I said.

He didn’t take it. He just stared at me as though seeing a stranger.
Maybe for the first time, he was.

Friday, he tried to buy his way back into the illusion.
He brought croissants from the bakery I loved, glazed tarts still warm.

“I thought you’d like these,” he said, voice bright with forced cheer.

I thanked him, split a croissant, and quietly Venmoed him my half — “Split between roommates,” I wrote in the note field.

He read the notification a minute later. “Seriously?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Seriously,” I replied. “Fair is fair.”

Something cracked behind his smile.
He stood there, croissant untouched, watching me finish mine with perfect calm.

Later that night, he found his voice again — or tried to.
“You’re being ridiculous,” he said, standing in the doorway of my new room. “We’re still together, Juliet. Stop acting like I’m just some guy you share rent with.”

I folded my laundry, laid each shirt perfectly flat.
“Are you in love with me, Ethan?”

Silence.

That was my answer.
I looked up from the folded towel, met his eyes. “Then stop asking me to pretend.”

By the end of that week, the rhythm of our new arrangement had settled — and it terrified him.

He’d come home every night trying to reclaim something intangible, something he’d thrown away without understanding its worth.
I’d meet him with politeness so measured it became armor.
Every “thanks,” every “sure,” every “sounds good” was a nail in the coffin of the man who thought I’d beg to be loved.

He cooked.
I paid my half.
He bought flowers.
I placed them in the guest bathroom.
He played music.
I put on headphones.

The first time he called me babe out of habit, I didn’t even look up.
He caught himself mid-word, like he’d tasted something spoiled.

That weekend, he tried again — another dinner, another bottle of wine.
Candles flickered. His attempt at romance was almost tragic.

“Let’s have a nice night together,” he said softly, the same tone he’d used when we were new.

I ate. I smiled. I paid my share. Then I went for a run.

When I came home, the candles were still burning, wax pooling onto the tablecloth. He was pacing.

“You’re being cruel,” he said, voice breaking.

“No,” I said. “I’m being consistent.”

He didn’t understand the difference, and that was the point.

Monday morning, I felt his hand brush my hip in bed — a familiar gesture that once meant love.

I froze.
His lips hovered near my shoulder. “Juliet,” he whispered, tender, rehearsed.

“No,” I said quietly, sitting up.

He blinked, confused. “What? Why not?”

“Because I don’t sleep with people who don’t love me.”

He laughed — a short, brittle sound. “People have casual sex all the time.”

“Sure,” I said, wrapping the sheet around me like armor. “But not with you. Not after what you said.”

His voice sharpened. “We’ve been doing this for three years!”

“And for three years,” I said, turning to face him, “I thought we were in love. That changes everything.”

The silence that followed was suffocating.
He muttered, “You’re punishing me.”

But I wasn’t.
I was simply letting his honesty live in the light where it belonged.

The following afternoon, I drafted an itemized list of every shared expense I’d covered in the last three months — dinners, weekend getaways, streaming subscriptions.
Total: $1,847.

I sent it via Venmo with a polite note: No rush. End of month is fine.

His call came within seconds. “Are you serious?”

“Completely,” I said, sipping coffee. “It’s what roommates do.”

He sputtered something about gifts and relationships.

“That’s what boyfriends do,” I corrected. “You’re not my boyfriend anymore.”

Click.

The call ended.

And in the silence that followed, I felt something shift — not vengeance, not gloating.
Power. Quiet and absolute.

He had asked for honesty.
He just hadn’t expected me to weaponize it with precision.

He’d wanted to keep me without keeping me.
Now, he was learning that love withdrawn isn’t loud — it’s efficient.

It rearranges the furniture, updates the passwords, balances the books, and keeps the receipts.

And by the time he realized it, I was already gone in every way that mattered.

Part 3 — The Consequences

The following week felt like the slow collapse of a building whose foundations had already been hollowed out.
Ethan still moved through the apartment, but his presence had changed weight—less lover, more ghost.

He tried routines first. Coffee brewed before I woke, the smell meant to lure me back to small talk.
I thanked him, poured half into a travel mug, and left for work without sitting down.
By Thursday he’d stopped making coffee.

The imbalance of our finances was the next fault line to split.
For two years I’d quietly shouldered dinners, weekend get-aways, his “temporary” debt.
Love had made it easy. Roommates made it math.

That morning I opened the Venmo app, itemized three months of shared expenses, and sent the request: $1 847.00 — Shared costs, due end of month.
I left a cheerful emoji at the end.
The phone rang before I’d even set it down.

“Are you serious?” His voice wavered between outrage and disbelief.

“Completely,” I said. “No rush—just the new normal.”

“I thought those were gifts!”

“They were,” I said lightly. “That’s what boyfriends get. You’re not one anymore.”

Click.

By Friday he was pacing again, restless energy ricocheting off the walls.
Every time he opened his mouth, the silence I returned became sharper.
He tried sarcasm, then guilt, then self-pity; none of it stuck.

That night I found him in the kitchen, scrolling through his phone, eyes wet.
“I didn’t mean it the way it sounded,” he said, voice cracking. “When I said I wasn’t in love, I was just…confused. Maybe depressed. I do love you.”

I looked up from my laptop. “So, were you lying then, or are you lying now?”

The question landed like a stone dropped in still water—ripples, then quiet.
He stared, speechless, realizing there was no version of the truth that saved him.

“You’re manipulating me,” he muttered at last.

“No,” I said, closing the computer. “I’m just taking you at your word.”

He left the room. The door slammed hard enough to rattle the frames.
For once, I didn’t flinch.

Sunday morning arrived with a fragile peace.
Sunlight spilled across the hardwood, and for a moment it felt like the world was learning how to breathe again.
I brewed coffee, poured two mugs out of habit, then poured one down the sink.

Ethan appeared, hair mussed, face drawn.
“You’re being cruel,” he said quietly.
“You’re punishing me for being honest.”

I set the mug on the counter, met his eyes.
“No, Ethan. I’m treating you exactly how you asked me to. You said you weren’t in love with me. So I adjusted.”

He shook his head. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then you should have chosen different words.”

His mouth opened—nothing came out. He turned away, defeated by his own sentence.

By mid-week, he tried reinforcements.
I came home to find his best friend, Aaron, sitting at our table like an intervention.

Ethan hovered behind him, arms folded.

Aaron cleared his throat. “You’re being cold, Juliet. He was just being honest. Relationships change.”

I placed my keys down gently. “Would you stay with someone who told you they weren’t in love with you, Aaron?”

He blinked, searching for a safe answer.

“Would you still buy the dinners? Pay the bills? Plan the trips?” I pressed.
He stared at his plate.

Ethan shifted uncomfortably. The silence stretched until Aaron muttered something about traffic and left.
When the door closed, Ethan glared at me like I’d stolen his script.

But I hadn’t done anything new. I’d just stopped pretending his delusion was real.

Thursday, his car died.
A cracked belt, a stalled engine, a $2 200 repair bill.
He texted: Babe, can you spot me? Promise I’ll pay you back.

Babe. The word looked foreign now, a souvenir from a country that no longer existed.

I wrote back: Sorry, that’s a lot. Maybe ask your parents—or work out a payment plan.

You’ve always helped me with this stuff, he replied.

I used to help my boyfriend, I typed. Roommates don’t cover major expenses.

No response.

The next morning, I watched him call an Uber—forty-seven dollars each way to his office.
The irony almost made me smile.

Saturday night, the air was heavy with desperation.
He hovered in the doorway of my room, eyes rimmed with sleeplessness.

“I didn’t think you’d actually stop loving me,” he said.

“I didn’t,” I answered. “I stopped showing it to someone who said he didn’t want it.”

He swallowed, jaw trembling. “Is there any chance for us?”

“No.”

The word was soft, but it ended everything.

He nodded slowly, as if the sound had finally reached the part of him that understood consequences.
Then he turned, walked down the hall, and closed his door.

The next morning, sunlight hit my desk in a way it never had before—unfiltered, steady, mine.
I made breakfast for one.
The apartment was silent except for the scrape of a fork against the plate.

For the first time in years, that silence didn’t feel like loss.
It felt like ownership.

Part 4 — The Unraveling

The silence after Ethan’s question should have been the end.
But people like him don’t accept endings; they mistake them for invitations.

He started small.
Little noises of importance — the clatter of dishes he didn’t wash, the sighs that filled doorways, the forced apologies that arrived with the same insincerity as wilted flowers.
By Tuesday, he’d begun performing sorrow like it was a rehearsal for sympathy.

He left notes on the fridge: Miss you.
On the counter: Can we talk?
Under my coffee mug: You’re still my person.

I threw them away, one by one, until the trash bin looked like a graveyard for false sentiment.

Wednesday morning, I woke to a knock on the door.
When I opened it, my parents were on the threshold, coffee mugs in hand, confusion written across their faces.

“Ethan called us,” my mother said gently. “He’s worried about you.”

He sat behind them on the couch, red-eyed, meek.
It was a scene rehearsed to perfection — the wounded boy and the woman who’d “changed.”

“Juliet,” Dad began, cautious, “he says you’ve been distant, shutting him out.”

I set the grocery bag on the counter and faced them.
Two deep breaths.
Then calm, deliberate truth.

“Ethan told me he’s not in love with me,” I said. “That he never was. I believed him, and I’ve been treating him accordingly.”

Dad’s jaw tightened.
He turned to Ethan. “You said that?”

Ethan stammered, “Not like — ”

“You told her you don’t love her,” my father cut in. “And now you’re upset she won’t pretend you do?”

Even my mother, who collects excuses like souvenirs, looked shaken.
“Sweetheart,” she said quietly, “if you’re not in love with her, why are you still here?”

For the first time, Ethan had no answer.
He just sat there, the script burning to ash in his hands.

The days after that visit broke him open.
Monday: remorse.
Tuesday: charm.
Wednesday: rage.
Thursday: bargaining.
By Friday, all that was left was noise.

He slammed cabinets, accused me of being cold, manipulative, “performative.”
I recorded every word.
Every outburst, every insult — digital insurance against the next storm.

When he calmed down, he’d pivot to affection, cooking elaborate dinners, lighting candles, performing devotion like it could overwrite confession.
I would thank him politely, eat, and Venmo him half.
Each ping on his phone was another reminder that love was no longer the currency of this house.

Saturday afternoon, the explosion arrived online.

A friend texted first: What’s going on between you and Ethan?
Then another: Did you really control all his money?

I opened social media and found the post — paragraphs of accusation.
He called me “financially abusive.”
Said I’d “isolated” him, “kept him dependent.”
Screenshots of my Venmo requests cropped carefully to remove the months of his debt.

At first, my heart hammered.
The instinct to defend myself flared like static under the skin.
But then I breathed, slow and measured, and remembered: panic is what he wants.

So I did what I always do.
I documented.

I gathered screenshots — every text where he promised to repay me, every message showing him asking for money, every “thanks for covering me again.”
I opened a group chat with the mutual friends who’d reached out, dropped the receipts, and wrote: Here’s the full story. Context matters.

Silence.
Then replies, one by one.

Wow. That’s not what he said.
He left all this out.
Unreal.

And then Derek, blunt as ever:

So he told you he wasn’t in love, still wanted the girlfriend perks, and now he’s mad you stopped? That’s wild.

By evening, the post was gone — deleted, scrubbed from existence like it had never happened.
But the damage had already turned inward, and this time it was his reputation, not mine, that carried the bruise.

The apartment grew quiet again after that, but it wasn’t peace.
It was the hush that comes before an implosion.

He stayed in his room most days, whispering on the phone, trying to find allies among the ones who’d already seen the truth.
Sometimes I’d catch fragments — pitying words from Chloe, his oldest friend.
Sometimes silence on the other end, the sound of him realizing no one was defending him anymore.

One evening, she showed up at the door.
Her eyes were rimmed red, her expression brittle.

“Don’t you think you’re being harsh?” she asked. “He was just being honest. Relationships evolve.”

I poured her coffee, set it on the counter between us.
“Would you want your boyfriend to tell you he’s not in love with you,” I asked, “and then expect you to keep pretending?”

She faltered.

“Would you keep cooking for him, covering bills, giving him everything, knowing he didn’t feel the same?”

The silence stretched.
Behind her, Ethan stood frozen in the hallway, his hope collapsing in real time.

Chloe grabbed her coat, muttered something about “needing to go,” and left without another word.
Ethan’s glare followed me down the hall, but I could see it — the sting of being abandoned by his last believer.

Thursday night, it happened again.
The late-night notifications, the flood of messages, the new round of lies.
This time his accusations were grander, uglier, desperate.
He called me a manipulator, a “sociopath.”

And once again, I replied with receipts.
Full screenshots.
Unedited context.
Recordings of his outbursts where my voice stayed calm while his rose into chaos.

Within hours, his second post vanished too.
This time he didn’t delete it — the platform did.

By morning, the digital battlefield was quiet, his name trending only in whispers.

Sunday came with boxes.
The scrape of cardboard, the rip of tape.
He was finally leaving.

I stayed in my room while he packed.
Each thud of a closing drawer felt like a closing chapter.
When the door knocked softly, I almost ignored it.
But curiosity won.

He stood there empty-handed, eyes hollow.

“It was a test,” he said.
His voice was barely audible. “I read somewhere that couples need brutal honesty. I thought if I told you I wasn’t in love, you’d fight for me.”

I stared at him.
“You thought telling me you didn’t love me would make me prove I did?”

He nodded, small and ashamed.

“No,” I said quietly. “It made me realize I deserve someone who never needs to test me at all.”

He flinched. “I didn’t think you’d actually stop loving me.”

“I didn’t,” I said. “I stopped giving it to someone who said he didn’t want it.”

He swallowed hard. “Is there any chance for us?”

“No,” I said simply. “Not now. Not ever.”

And for the first time, he didn’t argue.
He just nodded, turned, and walked out.

The sound of his car fading down the street felt like exhaling after holding my breath for a year.

When I closed the door, the apartment exhaled too.
The walls seemed lighter, the air cleaner.
No apologies left to scrub, no gaslight flickering behind me.

I made coffee, sat by the window, and watched the first light spread across the city.
Freedom didn’t roar.
It whispered.

And for the first time in years, I listened.

Part 5 — The Aftermath

The day after Ethan left, I woke to sunlight filling the apartment like it had been waiting for me.
The air smelled different—cleaner somehow, as if grief and gaslighting had their own scent and I’d finally aired it out.

I brewed coffee, poured one mug instead of two, and didn’t feel lonely doing it.
That surprised me most of all—not the silence, not the space, but the peace.

I sat by the window while the city stretched awake beneath me.
For the first time in three years, I didn’t check my phone before my first sip.
There were no missed calls. No messages to anticipate or dread.
Just the hum of morning traffic, the slow rhythm of my own breathing.

The apartment looked different now that it belonged only to me.
His absence was architectural.
The walls felt taller without his shadow clinging to them.
Even the air conditioner seemed quieter.

I found his last note still on the fridge—I love you, always.
The handwriting neat, rehearsed, insincere.
I peeled it off carefully, folded it once, and dropped it into the trash.
Then I opened every window.

That afternoon I took a walk, just to feel movement again.
The city wasn’t kind exactly, but it was honest.
It didn’t lie to me or ask me to be smaller.
The wind cut through my jacket and I smiled at the sting—it was real, it was mine.

By the weekend, the apartment had turned into a project.
I painted the bedroom pale blue, a color Ethan once called “cold.”
Now it looked like clarity.
I built new shelves, hung art, bought plants that didn’t mind neglect.

There’s a specific kind of freedom in rearranging your space after someone has tried to define it for you.
Every nail in the wall felt like a sentence punctuated.
Every brushstroke, a declaration: I am still here.

The landlord came by to update the lease.
He looked around, raised an eyebrow at the emptiness where Ethan’s desk used to be.
“Place feels different,” he said.
“It’s lighter,” I replied.
He smiled. “So are you.”

Weeks passed.
Ethan texted twice—brief, hollow attempts.
The first: Hope you’re okay.
The second: I miss you.

I didn’t reply to either.
Some silences are replies all their own.

I blocked his number after that.
Not out of anger, but mercy—mostly for myself.
There’s a point where revisiting pain becomes a choice, and I was finally learning not to choose it.

My friends began inviting me out again.
I said yes.
Dinner, wine, laughter that didn’t feel forced.
At first I caught myself glancing at my phone anyway, habit twitching under the surface like phantom pain.
But each time I ignored it, the impulse faded.
Freedom, it turned out, had to be practiced like anything else.

On one of those nights, Marcus—Ethan’s old colleague, the one he’d always been jealous of—walked into the same café.
He spotted me, smiled hesitantly, asked if he could sit.
He didn’t mention Ethan. Didn’t ask questions or offer pity.
We talked about travel, movies, coffee roasts.
Normal things.
The kind that don’t require apology or defense.

When we parted, he said, “You look happier than the last time I saw you.”
I laughed softly. “That’s because I am.”

Sometimes I still think about Ethan.
Not out of longing—just curiosity.
I wonder if he ever realized the quiet was the real ending, not the shouting.
That losing me didn’t happen in one dramatic moment, but in every small one where I stopped making excuses for him.

I don’t wish him harm.
I don’t wish him anything.
That’s the truest kind of closure there is.

One night, months later, I stood in the doorway of the apartment—the same one where he’d once pounded his fists, begging to be let in.
The wood was smooth again, repainted, unscarred.
I touched it lightly, like closing a chapter.

Behind me, the room glowed warm.
My plants had grown, vines spilling over the windowsill.
A record spun softly in the corner.
It was the sound of a life rebuilt.

I thought of what I’d written in my journal that night he left: For the first time, I’m not afraid of losing him. I’m relieved.
I smiled because it was still true.

I wasn’t angry anymore.
I wasn’t mourning.
I was finally free of needing him to understand what he’d done.

Because some men don’t break you—they teach you how to stop letting anyone try.

The following week, I signed up for the woodworking class I’d always wanted.
Ethan once called it “a waste of money.”
I clicked register without hesitation.
The confirmation email felt like a heartbeat—steady, certain.

And as the paint dried on the new bookshelf I’d built by hand, I realized something:
Revenge had never been the point.
It was never about making him pay.
It was about making myself whole again.

So I poured a glass of wine, opened the window, and let the city’s noise drift in.
The world kept spinning.
And for the first time in years, I wasn’t dizzy from it.

Epilogue

When someone tells you who they are, believe them.
Ethan showed me, and I finally did.
He said, You’ll never find anyone like me.
And he was right.
I never will.

Thank God for that.