Prologue
A wail tore from my throat as my knees hit the hardwood floor and echoed against the forest-green walls.
My arm slumped, my palm opened, and my phone fell facedown onto the rug I’d always hated. My body froze, but my head slowly turned. Tears streamed down my face as I blinked again and again, trying to focus my blurred, watery vision.
I looked at the shelves that displayed half his personality and half mine. The black-and-white David Bowie photo held my gaze—another detail of our home I despised. Not because it was a gift from his ex-girlfriend, but because I hated seeing the underbelly of the dog standing on its back legs stretched out next to Bowie’s rock-star demeanor as he sat in the chair.
I continued scanning the room, my heart pounding against my chest, my head slowly shaking no, as if someone were there to answer.
“SLOAN!”
A muffled sound broke through my trance, but I couldn’t place where it came from. I turned toward the opening of the living room, my eyes lifting to the crooked ceiling lamp that never cast light over the kitchen table.
“SLOAN!”
My brow furrowed, the tension in my head tightening further. I paused again, convinced I’d finally lost my mind—until I heard my name a third time.
“SLOAN!”
I grabbed my phone immediately. Unable to steady my breathing, I whimpered, “Ye… yeah?”
The voice on the other end softened.
“Sloan, you have to calm down. I can’t understand anything you’re saying. Are you at home? Should I come over?”
My shaking hands wiped at my cheeks, but the tears came faster than I could clear them away.
“They’re all attacking me,” I said. My voice didn’t sound like mine. “Everyone is acting like I did something wrong. I just wanted the truth. I don’t understand how it turned into this.”
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
“I don’t know, Sloane,” she said gently. “I don’t think you’re going to get the answers you want. Sometimes there isn’t closure. Sometimes things just end, and you don’t get to understand why.”
Her words landed without comfort.
All I wanted was for him to come home. For the door to open and for him to drop down beside me on the floor—knees bent, arms around me—telling me this was all a misunderstanding. That I was his priority. That I mattered.
I wanted him to choose me.
I wanted him to say the words I’d been waiting for months to hear. I want you. I love you.
Instead, my mind replayed the early days. The moments I should have left. The things I’d labeled not okay before quietly accepting them anyway. I remembered telling myself I deserved better—and then convincing myself to wait.
There was always more time. Time to grow. Time to change. Time to become the people we promised we wanted to be.
I hated how much I loved him. Hated how patient I’d been. How willing. How I’d waited for him to decide what I was worth, only to be left behind once he finally did.
My heart felt dismantled. Piece by piece. No instructions included.
Where was my grace? My second chance?
I hated how small he had made me feel. How easily I’d handed over my peace. How thoroughly I’d trusted someone who didn’t stay.
The sobbing crept up on me—quiet at first, then uncontrollable.
“I trusted him,” I said, my voice breaking. “I believed him. I believed everything he said. A few months ago, I was his world—and now I’m someone he can barely tolerate. That’s not love. You don’t just give up.”
Another pause. Longer this time.
“I’m coming over,” she said. “I’m coming to get you.”
“No. No,” I said, my voice cracking. “I just—I need to grab some things and get out of here. I don’t want to be here.”
“Sloan, listen to me,” she said, firmer now. “Grab a big-ass garbage bag. Throw your essentials in it. Get a cab and come to me and Paul. That’s it. That’s all you need to do right now.”
Something in my head shifted. Survival.
My mental health lay in pieces, my emotions splintered beyond repair. I felt hollowed out, like a shell pretending to be a person. But the truth was, I’d been living that way for months. Just holding myself together long enough to pass as okay.
It had barely been over a year since I started rebuilding. Since I believed I’d finally made the last hard decision of my life. I thought I’d figured it out—that this time, I’d gotten it right.
The tears didn’t stop as I pushed myself off the floor. My legs felt unsteady beneath me as I moved into the kitchen and reached for a giant black garbage bag. My chest caved when I pulled it from the roll.
I remembered moving in. The apartment swallowed in bags just like this one—him clearing space for me, making room. I remembered how he’d broken down again and again that week, saying how good it felt to finally get his life in order. To finally have it together.
That was us. Two lost souls finding each other. Ready to get life right. Ready to get love right. Ready to be happy.
And now here I was—broken, jolted, angry, alone. Every promise shattered. Every shred of hope gone. Pain pounding against my ribs like it was trying to escape.
I yanked the shampoo and toothpaste from the bathroom out of spite. Let him notice the little things he never had to think about were now gone. I ripped the photos from the hallway walls—the ones I knew he loved. The ones that brought him comfort.
I stuffed the bag with as many clothes as it could hold. Grabbed the boxed white wine from the fridge because I knew I would need it tonight.
I stood still for a moment, giving the apartment one last look, praying I could leave the pain locked inside its walls.
But I didn’t know then that this was only the beginning of the hell waiting for me.
