2. Mia
Chapter Two
Mia
The first morning after a breakup is always the worst.
Not because I wake up crying, angry, or alone. It's because for three whole seconds, I forget. For three beautiful, ignorant seconds, everything feels normal. I'm warm beneath the blanket. The room is quiet, and sunlight spills through the curtains.
Then, reality creeps in.
Somewhere between sleep and consciousness, I reach toward Sebastian's side of the bed and find nothing but empty sheets. My eyes fly open, and I remember the kitchen table conversation, the guilt on his face. A woman from work. Just a few months. I still love you, Mia.
The memory hits all at once, so hard that I suck in a sharp breath. A sob escapes before I can stop it, and I curl onto my side, pulling the blanket over my head as if I can hide from something that has already happened.
He's gone.
Sebastian left me.
After six years, he packed a bag, walked out the front door, and left me standing in the middle of the life we built together. I stayed there on my side of the bed until noon.
Maybe later.
Time feels different today.
Too slow when I'm awake. Too fast when I manage to sleep. I lose entire stretches of it staring at the wall, only to check the clock and realize forty minutes have passed.
Eventually, I force myself to sit.
My head is throbbing, and my stomach feels hollow. I haven't eaten since yesterday morning. I should be hungry, but the thought of food makes me nauseous.
I drag myself into the bathroom and stop. His toothbrush is still beside mine. Blue. Slightly crooked in the ceramic cup we bought at some home store three years ago because Sebastian said the plastic one I had was ugly.
I stare at it.
Of all the things that could break me this morning, apparently it's a fucking toothbrush. My hand reaches toward it, but I stop before touching it. People who leave are supposed to take their things.
Aren't they?
They're supposed to clear out drawers and pack boxes. They're supposed to leave empty spaces behind so you understand what happened. Sebastian left his toothbrush beside mine. Like he forgot he might need it, and might come back to pick it up later.
That thought is dangerous enough that I turn away.
I don't brush my teeth, and I don't shower. I walk into the kitchen instead, and somehow that’s worse. His coffee mug is still sitting beside the sink. I stop again.
Jesus Christ.
The stupid thing is chipped near the handle. I've tried to throw it away at least four times, and every time Sebastian pulled it back out of the trash because, apparently, coffee tasted better from that mug. I stare at it now. Just stare. Like somehow it has answers.
His keys aren't in the bowl near the door. His work shoes are gone. But his jacket is still hanging over the back of one of the dining chairs. A phone charger is still plugged into the wall beside the couch.
There are beers he likes in the refrigerator. His cereal is on top of the fridge because he's the only person I know who voluntarily eats plain Cheerios.
Half of his life is gone, but the other half is everywhere.
I stand in the middle of the kitchen and realize I don't know which is worse. Then I go back to bed and cry again.
The second day isn't much better.
Or the third.
Or the fourth, to be honest.
By the fifth, I move to the couch because I can't sleep in our bed anymore. Every inch of that mattress belonged to us. His side. My side. The middle where I always ended up because apparently personal space meant nothing once I was unconscious.
So I drag my oversized blanket into the living room and create a pathetic little nest on the couch.
I sleep there every night after that. If sleeping is even the right word.
Mostly, I move around. Fall asleep. Wake up.
Cry a little. Check my phone. Curl myself deeper into the blanket. Fall asleep again.
And then I repeat.
The worst part is checking the damn phone.
I keep looking at it every five minutes because some irrational part of me believes he'll text.
That he'll suddenly realize he made a mistake.
That he'll tell me he ended things with her.
That he'll say he loves me. That he'll come home. I know it's ridiculous.
I know.
But hope is cruel. It survives long after it should, especially when grief is involved.
So I keep looking. Keep waiting. Keep hurting myself.
Every notification sends my heart into my throat.
A promotional email from a store I haven't shopped at in two years.
A weather alert. A group chat I forgot to mute.
Lyann, my mother, or some random number asking if I want to sell a house I don't own.
Never him.
One afternoon, I find myself scrolling through six years of photos. Which is a terrible idea.
A catastrophically terrible idea.
And yet, I can't stop.
There we are at twenty-one, standing outside our first apartment off campus, holding paint samples and laughing at something that clearly made us happy back then. I zoom in on his face. Then at mine.
We look so young, so sure.
There we are at twenty-three, covered in sand after a beach trip. His arm is wrapped around my shoulders, my face buried against his neck. I remember that day.
I remember what we ate, him complaining about sand getting into the car. I remember falling asleep against the passenger window on the drive home and waking up with his hand resting on my thigh.
There we are at twenty-four on Christmas morning with matching pajamas, matching mugs, and a fucking matching future.
At least I thought so. I stare at every photo searching for clues.
Some sign, a warning. A moment when his smile changed.
A picture where he stopped leaning toward me.
Something in his eyes I should have noticed. But all I see is love.
Or what looked like love, and that’s even worse. Because if I can't trust six years of memories, what the hell can I trust? I should put the phone down. Instead, I end up deep inside my Pinterest account. Another mistake.
A bigger one.
The board is still there.
Wedding Ideas.
I created it two years ago, back when marriage felt inevitable.
Back when it wasn't a question of if, only when.
I tap it before I can stop myself. Dresses.
Flowers. Venue ideas. Long wooden tables beneath string lights.
A stupid cake with tiny pressed flowers that I saved because Sebastian once looked over my shoulder and said, That one isn't terrible.
Which, from him, was practically enthusiasm. I stare at the screen. The future version of me who made this board feels like a stranger. She was so certain, so confident, so safe. She had no idea she was collecting ideas for a wedding that would never happen.
I wonder what she'd think of me now.
Curled up on a couch, heartbroken, barely functioning, and alone. The thought makes tears sting my eyes again. I close the app, roll onto my side, and go back to sleep.
Later that night, I found a note on my phone.
Because apparently I haven't suffered enough.
I'm searching for something else. I don't even remember what. My brain is barely working these days. Then I see it.
Future Baby Names.
My breath catches.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
I forgot about that. Sebastian started it years ago.
I remember exactly how it happened. We were sitting on the couch watching a movie, and a baby appeared on screen.
I made some comments about the name being terrible.
He disagreed. I told him his taste in names couldn't be trusted because he'd once suggested naming a dog Kevin.
One argument became another, then we were laughing and making lists. Dreaming about the possibility.
When I open the note, I see dozens of names. Some we picked seriously. Others are truly ridiculous. Some even have little comments beside them.
Absolutely not — Mia
You have no taste — Sebastian
Maybe for a middle name?
I actually love this one.
My throat closes as I scroll slowly.
Every name feels like evidence that we once had a future.
Evidence that he helped me imagine it. Evidence that at some point, we sat together and talked about children who will never exist. I stare at the screen until the words blur.
Then I throw the phone across the couch.
Not just out of anger, but more so, out of exhaustion.
Because everything hurts.
Everything.
A week after Sebastian left, there's a knock on the door.
I'm on the couch beneath my blanket, staring at a television I haven't actually been watching for the past hour. I'm not expecting anyone, so I ignore it. The knock comes again.
I pull the blanket higher.
Nope.
Whatever it is can go away. Then whoever is outside starts pounding. “Mia, if you don't open this door, I swear to God, I'm breaking in.”
I roll my eyes.
Lyann.
I've been ignoring her texts and calls for the past week, which, in hindsight, was probably a tactical mistake. Lyann doesn't respond well to being ignored. It activates something in her. Something persistent, and too fucking loud.
“Mia!”
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter.
I slowly stand from the couch and drag myself across the apartment. When I open the door, her expression changes immediately. For one second, she just stares at me. She looks concerned. Heartbroken for me, maybe. Then her eyes narrow. A little pissed too. At him, not me. I hope.
“Sweet baby Jesus, Mia.” Her gaze moves slowly from my hair to my oversized T-shirt to the blanket still wrapped around my shoulders. “First of all, what the fuck are you wearing? Second, when was the last time you brushed your hair?”
I almost laugh.
“Okay, you can't say Jesus and fuck in the same statement.”
“I just did.”
“And I showered yesterday.” She looks me up and down again. I pull the blanket tighter around myself. “Insinuating that I haven't is a bit insulting.”
“Well, you don't look like it, so go hop in the shower while I make you some food.” She pushes past me, carrying three grocery bags and enough coffee to fuel us both for a week.
The second she enters, she starts assessing the damage. Her eyes move over the living room. The blanket nest. The collection of water glasses on the coffee table. The unopened takeout container from two nights ago. She glances toward the bedroom, then back at me. Her expression softens.
I hate that more than the jokes.
“Okay,” she says.
“Okay, what?”
“I took a few days off.”
I stare at her. “You what?”
“I’m staying here.”
“Lyann.”
“You need company, food, and probably sunlight.”
“Lyann, you didn’t have to do that. I’m okay. Really, I’m—”
“You look like Victorian tuberculosis.”
I blink. “I— what?”
“You look like you've been dying near a nice window.” She glances toward the living room. “Which, luckily, you have a few around here.” A surprised laugh escapes me. The first real laugh in days.
Lyann points at me immediately. “There she is.”
That's all it takes.
She's trying to make me laugh. Trying to make me feel like myself. And somehow, that makes me want to cry more than Sebastian leaving did. The tears start instantly. “Oh, fuck,” I whisper.
Lyann drops the grocery bags onto the counter and opens her arms. I practically collapse into them. She doesn't tell me to calm down. She doesn't say everything happens for a reason. She doesn't tell me I'll find someone better. She just holds me.
She just lets me grieve.
I cry into her shoulder until I can barely breathe. Until my face hurts. Until I'm embarrassed by the amount of fluid one human body can apparently produce. When I finally pull away, she hands me a tissue.
“Done?”
“No.”
“Okay. We can schedule another crying session later.”
I laugh through my tears. Then immediately start crying again. Lyann sighs dramatically. “I swear to God, if I ever see Sebastian in public—”
“Ly.”
“I'm just saying.”
“No felonies. He’s not worth it.”
“Oh, he’s absolutely not. But I can't make any promises.” I shake my head, and a tiny smile appears despite the ache sitting in my chest.
Then the question comes out before I can stop it.
“What if I wasn't enough?”
The room goes quiet. Lyann looks at me for a long moment. “Then why did he stay for six years?”
My eyes drop. I can't face her right now. “Maybe he realized too late.”
“Or maybe he's just an asshole, Mia.”
I let out a broken laugh.
Lyann groans. “Okay. This is becoming emotionally exhausting for me.” I throw the tissue at her. She claps her hands twice and points toward the hallway. “Shower. Go.”
I stare at her.
She points again. “Now.”
“Bossy.”
“Depressed.”
“Bitch.”
“Love you too.”
I turn toward the bathroom. Honestly, I do need a shower. Mostly because in there I can cry again and nobody will notice.
By the time I finish showering and manage to make myself somewhat decent, Lyann has cleaned half the kitchen and has food on the stove.
I stop at the edge of the room. The coffee mug is gone from beside the sink. For one horrible second, panic shoots through me. “Where's his mug?”
Lyann freezes, then she turns slowly. “What?”
“Sebastian's mug. The chipped one. It was beside the sink.”
Her expression changes to something between pity and understanding. “I washed it,” she says carefully. “It's in the cabinet.”
“Oh.” I nod once, like that was a normal question. Like I didn't just panic over a coffee mug belonging to the man who cheated on me. Lyann doesn't say anything. Thank God.
“You ready for real food?” she asks instead.
I'm not hungry. I have zero appetite. But I nod and sit on one of the stools at the kitchen island. She places a bowl of tomato bisque in front of me with a mini grilled cheese on sourdough.
I look up at her. “You made this for me?”
“Obviously.”
She knows this is my comfort food. And her tomato soup is the best soup I've ever had. My stomach protests when I take the first bite, but I keep going. Halfway through the sandwich, she reaches across the island.
“Phone.”
I stop chewing. “What?”
“Your phone. Give it to me.”
“No.”
“Mia.”
“Why?”
She just looks at me, and I narrow my eyes. She extends her hand. I know exactly what she's doing, and I hate it because she's right. Slowly, reluctantly, I pull my phone from the pocket of my sweatpants and hand it over. She immediately powers it off.
My chest tightens. “What if he texts?”
The question comes too fast, and too desperate. Lyann's expression doesn't change. That's when I know she understands what I'm actually asking.
Not what if he texts? I’m asking, what if he comes back? What if this isn't over? What if there's still hope?
Her voice softens. “Honey.”
I look down.
“He won't.” The words hurt more than I expected. “He’s been sleeping with someone else for months,” she continues gently. “And he ended a six-year relationship in one sitting. He was prepared to leave.”
My throat closes.
Ouch bitch.
That fucking hurts. But I know she's right. Lyann is never cruel to me unless I absolutely need to hear something harsh.
Apparently, this is one of those times.