He was not great at giving Elena space when she came home tired from work. By month two, the power dynamic had completely inverted. Elena wasn't the savior comforting the sad boy anymore. She was a stressed-out woman coming home to a dirty apartment and a jobless man playing video games on her old, small TV because I took the OLED. The emotional connection she claimed they had evaporated the moment she asked him to chip in for groceries.
Greg, true to his nature, flipped the script. He called her controlling and materialistic, the exact same insult she used to throw at me. When the eviction notice finally hit because she couldn't cover the rent, Greg didn't fight for her. He didn't get a job at Starbucks to help out. He ghosted.
He literally packed his bag while she was at work and went back to his parents' basement. He blocked her on everything. He left her with the debt, the eviction on her record, and the crushing realization that she had blown up a stable, loving life for a hallucination. She lost the apartment. She had to move back in with her mother in the suburbs, a 90-minute commute to her job.
I heard all of this from Mike, who heard it from Mark, who had apparently unblocked me just to apologize. I didn't reply. I didn't feel happy about it. I didn't feel sad. I felt vindicated.
The demolition was complete, and I was already building something new. It was a Tuesday evening in November, about 3 months after the lease break, I was leaving my gym feeling good. My bank account had recovered. I had a date lined up for the weekend with a lawyer I met at a networking event, and I was in the best shape of my life. The stress cortisol that had pumped through my veins for 2 years was gone.
I walked out into the crisp autumn air, digging in my gym bag for my keys. Up. The voice stopped me. It was smaller than I remembered. Shakira.
I turned around. Elena was standing near the bike rack, shivering slightly in the wind. She looked rough. The glossy, put-together woman I had lived with was gone. She had lost weight, but not in a healthy way.
She looked gaunt. Her hair was pulled back in a messy bun that looked like it hadn't been washed in days. She was wearing a hoodie I recognized, one of my old ones she had kept. "Hey," I said. I didn't smile.
I didn't frown. I just stood there, waiting. "I've been waiting here for an hour," she said, wrapping her arms around herself. "I know you always do chest day on Tuesdays." "Okay," I said, keeping my distance.
"Why?" She took a step forward, her eyes welling up with tears. It was a look that used to work on me. It used to make me apologize for things I didn't do. Now, it just looked like a performance I hadn't bought a ticket for.
"I miss you," she whispered. I didn't say anything. I just looked at her. "I messed up," she continued, the words tumbling out now, desperate to fill the silence. You were right about everything.
Greg, he's a narcissist. He used me. He turned me against you. I didn't see it then, but I see it now. He's gone, Opie.
I kicked him out 2 weeks ago. She paused, looking at me expectantly. She was waiting for me to validate her victory. She wanted credit for solving a problem she created. "Okay," I said again.