thirty #2
"Isn't it?" Her voice didn't rise, but something in it sharpened. "I just don't get how you went from loving the stage, being proud of what you built, to wanting to throw it all away."
"I'm not throwing it away," I snapped.
Sam's eyes searched mine. "Oh I'm sorry because what you're explaining to me right now is not you running away with a man who ignores you in public and buys you flowers in private?" She gestured to the flowers still set up around the penthouse from last night.
I looked away.
She shook her head, quieter now. "I know that place gets dark sometimes. I know you've had nights that shook you. But this... this doesn't sound like someone making a change. This sounds like someone folding."
Sam crossed her arms. "And you really think moving in with Brooks is going to give you that?"
I hesitated. "I don't know, but it's still my decision to make and I made it."
She stared at me, eyes glinting with frustration and something that looked a lot like heartbreak. "I just—this feels like something you'll talk yourself into until it's too late to back out."
I stood, the air suddenly too tight around me. "Why does this feel like you don't trust me to make my own decisions?"
"I do trust you," she said. "But I don't trust the timing. I don't trust how quiet you've gotten lately. How fast this is happening and honestly? I don't trust him."
That stung more than I expected.
"You don't know him," I said.
"I know you," she replied. "And right now, you sound like someone who's trying to disappear into someone else's life instead of building your own."
I didn't have a response to that. Not a clean one, anyway.
We stood there in silence, the air thick between us.
Then she stepped back, grabbing her bag. "I'll see you later."
"Sam—"
She didn't turn around. "Just... I came here to make sure you were okay. I see you're perfectly fine and that's all I care about."
Brooks came down the stairs a few minutes later, slower than usual, like he could already feel the weight hanging in the air.
I was still standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the door like Sam might come back and take it all back. The flowers were still everywhere, untouched. The room felt too pretty for how heavy I felt inside.
Brooks approached carefully, stopping just behind me. "You okay?"
I didn't answer at first. Just nodded, even though I wasn't sure it was true.
"She's upset," I finally said.
He didn't ask who.
He didn't need to.
Instead, he said softly, "I know how much she means to you."
I stayed quiet.
"And the club too," he went on. "The girls. That whole world you've built for yourself—everything that's shaped you."
I turned slightly, enough to see his face. He looked thoughtful. Tired.
He gestured around the apartment, a small movement. "Just because I pulled you into my world doesn't mean I expect you to lose yours."
"I know you don't," I said. My voice was quiet but steady.
His eyes searched mine. "I just don't want you to feel like I'm... taking you out of something before you're ready."
"You're not," I said again, firmer this time. "I need to leave."
Brooks gave a slow nod, like he was still letting the truth of that settle in. "Okay."
He studied me for a long moment, like he was trying to figure out if this was grief or growth.
A few hours later, Brooks drove us to my apartment.
I didn't want to sit on the idea any longer—I just wanted to get it over with. No more debating. No more spiraling in circles. Just movement. Forward.
The sun was low when we pulled up, casting long shadows across the sidewalk. The hallway smelled like old carpet and takeout, familiar in a way that made my chest ache.
Inside, the air felt still—like it had been holding its breath, waiting for this moment.
I walked through the space slowly, trailing my fingers along the edge of the couch, the bookshelf, the chipped paint near the kitchen. Everything looked smaller than I remembered. Or maybe I just felt bigger now, like I'd outgrown something I didn't even realize was shrinking.
The silence settled around us as we started to pack. Not heavy. Not angry. Just quiet.
Brooks didn't ask questions. He just moved through the space carefully, like he understood what this meant to me without needing it explained.
I crouched in front of the coffee table and started stacking the old photos I'd kept there—me and Sam at our first apartment, blurry polaroids of me and Tati at the club, birthday pictures that felt like they belonged to a different lifetime.
I paused on one with all three of us—Sam, Tati, and me in matching pajamas on New Year's Eve.
Champagne flutes in hand. Laughing like nothing could touch us.
I pressed the photo to my chest for a second before tucking it gently into a box.
This part of my life hadn't always been perfect.
But it had been mine.
And now I was folding it up, piece by piece. Making room for whatever came next.
I taped the box shut and reached for another.
The next one was harder. It held old clothes—stage outfits mostly.
Sequins, fringe, lace. Things I'd sewn extra straps into.
Things that had made me feel powerful once.
I held up one of my first sets: a red rhinestone two-piece with tiny velvet hearts sewn onto the sides.
Tati had helped me hot glue half the gems on.
I remembered how nervous I'd been walking out in it that first night.
How alive I'd felt when the lights hit my skin.
Now it felt like it belonged to someone else. Someone louder. Braver. Or maybe just more certain of who she was when all the music cut out.
I folded it carefully and placed it inside the box, right next to my heels—the red ones, the patent leather ones, the black boots I'd worn so long they'd started to tear at the seams.
Behind me, I heard the low hum of Brooks moving in the kitchen, opening and closing drawers, checking for things I might've missed. He didn't rush me. Didn't try to make small talk. He just stayed close enough to remind me I wasn't doing this alone.
I pulled at the locker on my neck. It was small, a little tarnished, the clasp stiff from wear. The photo inside was still clear—my dad, smiling like he always used to and me, sitting on his shoulders.
I stood there holding it for a long time.
"I used to sleep with this on," I said softly, more to myself than to Brooks. "Like if I didn't wear it, I'd forget what his voice sounded like."
Brooks had come closer without me noticing. He paused at the edge of the doorway, his arms crossed gently over his chest.
"Do you still remember that day?"
I shook my head, tears suddenly threatening again. "Barely, I wish I did. I don't remember much of him anymore, but I still feel his presence."
He didn't say anything. Just watched as I closed the locket. It felt lighter than I remembered.
"Almost done?" he asked gently.
"Almost," I said, brushing a loose curl from my face.
I turned back toward the final stack—a few more photos, a stack of books, the scented candle Sam gave me last Christmas that still smelled like vanilla and cinnamon when you lit it for more than five minutes. I packed each thing slowly, like I was saying goodbye with every fold and tuck.
When I stood, I took one last look around the room. It didn't feel like mine anymore.
And maybe that was a good thing.
Brooks stepped beside me, his hand brushing mine. I let my fingers fall into his, lacing there without thinking.
"You ready?" he asked.
I exhaled. Not a dramatic sigh. Just the kind you let out when your chest has been holding something in too long.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go."
We walked down the steps together, carrying the last box between us. The street was quiet. The kind of quiet that usually would've made me anxious. But tonight, it just felt still. Like something had been set down.
Brooks opened the trunk while I settled the box in the backseat, then shut the door gently. He didn't ask if I was okay. He didn't have to.
I was leaving a version of myself behind.