43. Cathy
43
CATHY
I step into my old apartment, and it feels smaller, as though the walls have inched closer together since I last stood here.
I pause, letting the quiet fill my ears, eyes roving over the details of my life laid out in carefully placed furniture and knick-knacks that, once upon a time, I thought would make me feel at home.
A vase sits on the windowsill, wilted petals curled sadly in its mouth, remnants of some forgotten attempt to bring life into this space. I walk over and lift it, the brittle leaves scattering, and I realize how fragile this place, and my time here, has been.
Ivan was right. Jimmy hasn’t been back here. None of my things have been destroyed. Not a single one.
I have enough money to live anywhere, do anything.
My gaze drifts to the living room, the couch positioned in front of the TV, the throw pillows arranged in careful symmetry.
I can still feel the weight of Jimmy’s voice, the way he would comment on everything I did—the way I cleaned, the way I laughed at a joke on TV, the way I fidgeted when he wanted me to sit still.
A flash of a memory jolts me: Jimmy standing by the computer while I was trying to write, eyes narrowed as he criticized me for not taking his side on some trivial argument he was having online.
But then I think of Ivan. Cold, yes, intense, and mysterious, but also protective in ways Jimmy never was. When Ivan looks at me, he doesn’t make me feel small.
If anything, his gaze feels like a challenge, like he’s waiting for me to rise up and meet him. I feel safe with Ivan, even in his silence. With him, I don’t feel the need to shrink myself or mold myself into something else.
I make my way to the kitchen, where remnants of my old life sit untouched—the coffee mugs stacked neatly, a lone box of cereal on the counter. I remember standing here, making coffee early in the mornings, only for Jimmy to sweep in, criticize me for having sugar. “Going to get even fatter.”
He made every small thing feel monumental, every personal choice an insult to his authority. There were so many mornings I stood in front of the coffee maker, holding my breath as I waited for him to come in, not knowing what would set him off that day.
But then I think about Ivan in his kitchen, the way he made me coffee just the way I liked it, no criticism or expectations—just a simple act of care.
I remember his quiet attention, the way he seemed to remember every small preference, as though it mattered to him. With Ivan, I am my own person. He doesn’t ask me to change; he asks me to be more of who I am. And that difference… it feels monumental.
I turn back to the hallway, feeling a sense of calm wash over me. I’ve made my choice. This apartment, this life, it’s no longer mine. My fingers graze the wedding ring on my hand, and a small smile tugs at my lips. I’m not afraid anymore.
I’m done letting others control me, done living in a shadow of fear. Ivan’s darkness may be overwhelming at times, but it doesn’t consume me. It lets me shine.
One by one, I start pulling things from their places—clothes, a few books, a notebook I keep scribbled ideas in, things that matter enough to bring with me. This time, I’m leaving on my terms.
As I zip up the bag, I glance around one last time. This space has seen me at my lowest, but I won’t carry that with me. I close the door with a sense of finality, locking away the ghosts of who I used to be. I’m never coming back here again and that isn’t scary, it’s freeing.