thirty-nine #2
"He's not always like this. When it's just us, he's—" I pressed a trembling hand to my chest.
"He's kind. He listens. He makes me feel like I'm not just some girl who dances in the dark. He looks at me like I'm worth something, Sam. For once in my life, I feel...chosen."
Sam's face softened for half a second, but then she shook her head hard, like she refused to be swayed.
I rushed on anyway, desperate, my words tripping over themselves.
"He tells me things he doesn't tell anyone else. He lets me see the parts of him nobody else gets to see. He's the first person who's ever made me feel safe enough to fall asleep without worrying I'd wake up alone. How is that nothing? How can you sit there and tell me that means nothing?"
Tears blurred the edges of my vision, but I forced myself to look at her. "Maybe it's pathetic, maybe it is, but it's real to me. Our relationship was real to me."
Sam's jaw clenched, and for a second I thought she might let me have that last word. But then her voice came, sharp and merciless.
"You keep saying he makes you feel chosen, Mira, but chosen for what? A night when it's convenient? A trip when nobody's watching? Do you even hear yourself?"
"Don't do that—"
"No, listen to me." She leaned across the table, her eyes blazing.
"This isn't love. This is crumbs. He throws you scraps of attention and you build a whole damn meal out of it, and I'm supposed to clap? I'm supposed to sit here and act like it's normal that you traded in your dreams for some man's mother to spit in your face?"
My chest seized. "You don't understand—"
"You're right, I don't."
The words landed like blows, each one cracking something open inside me.
My throat trembled. "Sam, please—"
But she wasn't done. Her voice broke, hard and final.
"You think he chose you? No, Mira. He hid you. And if you can't see the difference, then maybe you're not the woman I thought you were."
The silence after that was deafening.
Something in my chest caved. The breath went out of me in a rush, but nothing came back in. My eyes stung hot before I could stop them, before I could swallow it down. I wanted to fight her, to throw something back sharp enough to draw blood. But all I managed was a cracked whisper.
"Maybe I should've known better, Sam. Maybe I was stupid for thinking him and I could ever be real."
Sam's face faltered for the smallest second, but then her arms crossed tight over her chest, holding the line.
I pressed my palms over my eyes, shoulders shaking. For the first time since everything started, I didn't feel like Brooks's secret. I didn't feel like Margot's rival. I just felt small, and stupid, and so unbearably alone.
The silence between us stretched, broken only by the kettle's slow click as it cooled on the counter. I forced myself to breathe, forced myself to lower my hands, my mascara smudged and my face blotchy.
"I came here because I thought you of all people would understand. I didn't need a lecture. I just...needed my best friend." My throat burned. "And instead you made me feel worse."
"Mira—" Sam's tone softened, but I cut her off with a sharp shake of my head.
"No. Don't." I stood so fast the chair legs screeched against the tile. My body felt too tight for the room, like the walls were pressing in. "I shouldn't have come. I'm sorry I did."
Sam's lips parted like she wanted to reach for me, but she didn't move. And maybe that was worse than the words.
I grabbed my shoes from the mat by the door, fumbling as the heels knocked together. My vision blurred, and I hated myself for it, hated the way my hands shook as I shoved my feet into them.
"Mira, wait—"
But I was already at the door, already yanking it open. The hallway smelled like someone else's dinner and bleach, too bright and too loud compared to the thick silence behind me.
I turned back just once, my chest aching. "You don't have to worry. You won't have to watch me twist myself anymore."
The door slammed before I could see her face.
And then it was just me, heels clicking too hard down the stairwell, trying to outrun the sound of my own sobs.
The city pressed in around me—horns, laughter, the hum of late trains overhead.
I didn't know where I was going, only that I couldn't go back.
So I walked. Past bodegas shuttering for the night, past couples weaving out of bars, past cab drivers leaning on their horns.
My heels slowed me, so I slipped them off and carried them, bare feet slapping against the cool concrete.
Hours blurred together. The night air cooled, then thinned, until the sky above the skyline paled gray.
By then, my legs were trembling, my dress sticky against my skin, but I kept moving.
When I finally stopped, it was at some random bench wedged between a corner store and a bus stop.
I dropped onto it, clutching my shoes to my chest, and let the world move around me—delivery trucks rumbling, early commuters with coffee cups, the city shaking itself awake.
At some point, I pulled my phone out again.
The screen lit up so bright it hurt my eyes: dozens of texts.
Pleading, frantic, stacked one after another.
From both Sam and Brooks. Missed call notifications stacked on top, too many to count.
I locked the screen before I could read more, before I could let myself soften.
By the time the sun cleared the rooftops, I finally ordered an Uber. I sank into the backseat, forehead against the glass, watching Philadelphia dissolve into Jersey through a film of exhaustion.
When the car pulled up outside the house, the first thing I noticed was the empty drive.
Monte's car wasn't there. My chest tightened, and I told myself it meant Brooks wasn't home.
Relief and disappointment twisted together in my gut as I let myself out, the front door looming like it belonged to someone else's life.
The house was still when I slipped the key in and let myself inside. Too still. No Monte, no Brooks, not even the faint sound of a TV left on to keep the silence company.
My heels clicked against the marble, echoing too loudly in a space that had never felt like mine.
The flowers he'd filled it with the week before were already drooping, petals scattering across the console table.
I stared at them for a long time, until my chest ached with how much they looked like us—once bright, now wilted, forgotten.
I set my shoes down carefully, toes pointed outward like I might come back for them, and then kept walking.
Upstairs, the bedroom was exactly how we'd left it. Sheets tangled, one of his shirts draped over the chair in the corner, my lotion bottle lying sideways on the dresser.
I didn't cry. I didn't have anymore tears left in me.
I pulled my duffel bags from under the bed and a suitcase out of the closet and started packing. Dresses still hung with the tags, folded laundry I'd never put away, the notebooks I kept tucked beneath the nightstand. Every zipper, every drawer I slid shut felt like erasing myself.
By the time the sun was high enough to spill through the curtains, half my life was packed away.
I sat on the edge of the bed, my phone buzzing again in my pocket. I didn't pull it out. Not yet.
I slung the duffels over my shoulder and dragged the suitcase down the stairs, every step echoing like it was announcing me.
The kitchen light glowed faintly under the hood above the stove, the only thing awake in the house. I set the bag down by the counter and just stood there, staring at the space like it might speak back to me.
For a second, I thought about leaving a note. Something simple. Something that might explain, or soften, or at least prove I hadn't just vanished. But the words wouldn't come. Every sentence that formed in my head sounded like an apology, and I didn't have another one left in me.
Instead, I pulled the key from my pocket. Cold, heavy, heavier than a piece of metal should've been. I laid it flat on the counter, next to the fruit bowl he never touched.
That was my note.
I adjusted the strap on my shoulder, and walked out without looking back.
This what yall wanted so bad, huh? ????????????????
2 updates tomorrow and the final 2 on wednesday
or 2 on wednesday and the final 2 thursday or friday