Goodbye, Sarah. I stepped back, closed the door, locked it. I stood there for a moment, listening to her cry on the other side. Part of me wanted to open it. Part of me wanted to comfort her.
That part of me was dying. After a few minutes, the crying stopped. I heard footsteps walking away. I walked to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, sat down, and for the first time in 4 years, I felt free. That night, I went to bed without checking my phone, without wondering where she was, without thinking about what she was doing or who she was with.
I thought about the job I'd turned down, the city I'd never moved to, the life I'd never lived. I thought about the person I'd been, the guy who bent over backwards, who gave until it hurt, who loved someone more than he loved himself. I didn't miss him. I didn't miss her. I just closed my eyes and slept.
The first week was quiet. I went to work. I came home. I cooked for myself. Simple things.
Nothing fancy. I didn't check her social media. I didn't ask mutual friends what she was doing. I didn't drive past our old apartment. I just existed.
And somehow that was enough. But Sarah Sarah was not doing well. I found out later through the grapevine, through people who felt obligated to update me even though I never asked that she'd spent the first night calling everyone she knew, crying about how I'd abandoned her. She told her friends I'd overreacted. She told them I was too sensitive.
She told them she'd been joking, that I should have known she was joking, that I was punishing her for a harmless comment. Some of them believed her at first. Then Derek, the exciting guy she'd gone to meet that night, showed up at a bar with someone else, a blonde who laughed too loud and hung on his arm like she'd won something. Sarah saw them together and lost it. She confronted him in front of everyone.
Demanded to know who the blonde was. demanded to know what they were. Derek looked at her like she was a stranger. We went out once, he said. I don't owe you anything. She started crying.
He walked away. The story spread. It always does. By week two, her friends were pulling back. Not because they'd suddenly developed a moral compass.
Most of them had been complicit in her behavior for months, covering for her, lying for her, helping her craft texts that made me look like the problem. But because Sarah had become exhausting, she was drinking every night, posting cryptic Instagram stories about betrayal and fake people, texting her friends at 2:00 a.m., 3:00 a.m., 4:00 a.m., demanding validation, demanding they take sides, demanding they hate me the way she decided to hate me. But the thing about hate is it's exhausting, and eventually people get tired of being your emotional support animal. Her best friend, Mia, stopped answering her calls. Her other friend, Jess, told her she needed to get help.
Her mother told her to stop calling until she got her life together. Sarah was alone, and she knew it. By week three, she'd lost her job. The official reason was performance issues. The unofficial reason was that she'd shown up hung over one too many times, snapped at one too many customers, and had a public breakdown in the break room that everyone heard.
She came home to an eviction notice. Without my half of the rent, she couldn't afford the apartment. She had 30 days to vacate. She called her parents. They refused to help.
Not because they didn't have the money. They did, but because they were tired. Tired of her drama. Tired of her excuses. Tired of the way she'd treated me for 4 years and expected everyone to just watch.
"You made your bed," her father told her. "Now lie in it. " She called Mia. Mia said she was going through something and couldn't take her in. She called Jess.
Jess didn't answer. She called Derek. He blocked her. By week four, she was living in her car. I didn't know that yet.
I was too busy living my own life. I'd started going to the gym, not to get ripped, just to move, to sweat, to feel something other than the numbness that had settled into my bones. I'd started reading again the way I used to before I met her. I'd started painting. Just small things, watercolors and sketches.
Nothing serious. But it was something. My brother called it healing. I called it surviving. Either way, it was working.
I got a promotion at work. A small one, but a step in the right direction. My boss pulled me aside and told me I'd been different lately. More focused, more present. He didn't know what had changed, but he liked it.
I didn't tell him about Sarah. I didn't tell anyone. She was becoming a memory, a story I'd tell someday, maybe when it didn't hurt anymore. But she wasn't done with me yet. The text started innocently enough.
I'd blocked her number, but she found ways around it. A new phone, a friend's phone, a messaging app I'd never used. Unknown. I know you blocked me. I get it, but can we just talk?
I didn't respond. Unknown. I'm not asking for anything. I just want to explain. I deleted the message.
Unknown. I was drunk. I was stupid. I didn't mean any of it. I put the phone down.
Unknown. Please. I have nowhere to go. Unknown. I'm sleeping in my car.
Unknown. Do you even care? Unknown. You're so cold. You were never like this before.
I didn't respond to any of them. Not one. Then her mother called. I didn't recognize the number, so I answered. I thought it might be about work.
Hello. Hi. Is this [my name]? I recognized her voice immediately. Sarah's mother.
A woman who had always been polite to me, but distant, like she was evaluating me, always waiting for me to prove myself. This is he. Hi, sweetie. This is Carol, Sarah's mom. I know.
There was a pause. I could hear her breathing on the other end. The way she was preparing herself for a conversation she didn't want to have. She's not doing well. I know she's my daughter.
I love her, but she's she's struggling. And I know she hurt you. I know she made mistakes, but she needs you right now. I leaned against the kitchen counter and closed my eyes. She told me we were basically over.
She told me she was meeting someone more exciting. She laughed at me and walked out the door. I know, I know, but she didn't mean it. She was confused. She was She wasn't confused.
She was cruel. And I'm not her backup plan. Carol's voice hardened. She's your girlfriend. You have a responsibility to her.
I don't actually. She ended things. I respected that. I'm not responsible for her choices. You're being cruel.
I'm being honest. She wasn't crying when she left to meet someone else. She was laughing. She's crying now. She's sleeping in her car.
She's I'm sorry she's struggling. I am, but that's not my problem anymore. Carol was silent for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was cold. You're not the man I thought you were.
I'm exactly the man I always was. She just never appreciated it. I hung up. Then Mia called. I answered because I was curious.
Mia had been at the apartment a hundred times. She'd sat on our couch, eaten our food, slept on our floor after parties. She'd been Sarah's best friend for years. Hey. Hey.