3. Mia
Chapter Three
Mia
“Will I ever stop crying?” I ask Lyann as I walk around the living room.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“No idea.” I glare at her, and she shrugs. “What? I’m being supportive, but I’m not a psychic.”
A laugh escapes me. It was small, full of tears, but real.
I wipe my face again and stand. “I need a drink.” I walk to the little bar cart in the corner and grab a bottle of tequila. Lyann watches me. I sit beside her on the couch with the bottle in my lap. For a long moment, neither of us speaks.
“Are you opening that, or are you just holding it for emotional support?” She asks, looking at the bottle of tequila.
I twist off the cap. “Both.” I take a sip and immediately regret every decision I've ever made. “Fuck.”
Lyann takes the bottle from me. “Amateur.”
She takes a sip, makes the exact same face, and coughs.
I stare at her. “Amateur.”
“Shut up.”
For a while, we pass the bottle between us. Not enough to forget, but enough to make everything feel slightly farther away. “I’m tired of crying,” I say eventually.
Lyann leans her head against the back of the couch. “I know.”
“He doesn’t deserve me.”
“Nope.”
“I know my worth.”
“You do.”
“I've cried enough.”
She turns her head toward me. “That's not how grief works. You don't get to decide you're done just because you're tired.”
I look down at the bottle in my hands. “I hate when you're emotionally intelligent.”
“It's one of my worst qualities.”
I smile, but it quickly disappears. “I just want my life back.”
Truth is, I don’t want a new life or a better one. I want my life. The one I had a week ago. Lyann doesn't answer immediately. I stare at the dark television screen across from us.
“I don't want to start over,” I whisper. “I don't want to date. I don't want to download apps. I don't want to meet someone new and explain my childhood, my favorite food, and why I hate driving in the rain. I don't want any of it.” My voice cracks. “I just want my life back.”
Lyann reaches over and takes my hand. “I know, babe.”
“This was supposed to be my home.”
Her thumb moves slowly across my knuckles. “It still can be.”
I look around. At the couch where Sebastian and I watched hundreds of movies.
The kitchen where we cooked dinner together.
The framed photos on the walls. His jacket still hanging over the chair.
My chest tightens. “No,” I say quietly. Lyann follows my gaze.
I don't know if she sees the apartment or what it has become.
A museum. A crime scene. A life interrupted halfway through. “I can't stay here,” I whisper.
The realization scares me the second I say it.
Lyann sits up slightly. “You don't have to decide that tonight.”
“I have eight months left on the lease, but I can't afford this place by myself.” There it is, the practical truth beneath all the emotional bullshit. This apartment was built around two incomes. Two people. Two lives. Without Sebastian, the rent isn't just painful. It's impossible.
Lyann's face changes. “You never told me that.”
“I haven't exactly been doing a lot of financial planning this week.”
“Mia.”
“I know.”
She squeezes my hand. For a moment, neither of us speaks. Then she says, carefully, “You could sublease.”
I stare at her. “What?”
“The apartment. You once said your building allows it, right?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“You could sublease for the remaining months.”
“And go where?”
She shrugs. “Somewhere cheaper.”
I laugh once, but it sounds empty. “Great. Perfect. Love that for me. Boyfriend cheats, relationship ends, can't afford an apartment. Really strong year.”
“Mia.”
“No, seriously. Maybe next week I'll get fired. Keep the momentum going.”
“Stop.”
I lean my head back against the couch. Lyann watches me for a moment. Then she says, “What if you left the city?”
I turn toward her. “What?”
“Not far.”
“No.”
“You didn't even let me finish.”
“Because I know that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you decide something about my life and then harass me until I agree.”
She looks offended. “I do not harass. I aggressively support.” Despite feeling like shit, I smile, and she takes that as encouragement.
“I'm serious. What if you found somewhere outside the city?
Not super far. Close enough that I can get to you if you need me, but far enough that you're not paying city rent.”
“I’m not moving from the city.”
“I didn't say right now.”
“This is my home.” The words come out sharper than I intend and Lyann goes quiet. I stand too quickly, the tequila making the room tilt just enough that I grab the arm of the couch. “He left,” I say. “Why should I have to leave too?”
“Mia—”
“No. Seriously. He cheats on me. He walks out. And now I have to give up my apartment too?” My voice breaks. “I have to lose everything because he decided he wanted someone else?”
Lyann's face softens, and I hate it. I hate that she understands. I hate that I'm crying again.
“This isn't fair.”
“No,” she says quietly. “It isn't.”
“I want my old life.”
“I know.”
I wipe my face. “And I really fucking hate that you keep saying that.”
“I know.” I throw another tissue at her. This time she catches it.
For a while, neither of us says anything, then Lyann reaches for her laptop. I stare at her. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing, I’m just opening my laptop.”
“Why?”
“Because that's generally how laptops work.” I narrow my eyes. She opens it and types something.
I lean over. “What are you searching?”
“Nothing.”
“That says apartments, Lyann.” She grins.
I should stop her. I should close the laptop. I should remind her that I'm heartbroken, slightly drunk, and in absolutely no position to make decisions about my life. Instead, I sit back down. “Nothing too far.”
Lyann's fingers stop over the keyboard. She looks at me, smiles, and turns back to the laptop. For the next hour, we look. And mostly, it's terrible.
One apartment has a kitchen so small I could probably cook dinner from the toilet. Another describes itself as “rustic,” which apparently means the floors are collapsing. The bedroom has no windows.
“Is that legal?” I ask.
“Probably not.”
“Then why is it twelve hundred dollars?”
“Capitalism.”
I snort.
She keeps scrolling. There are a few decent ones. Nothing special. Nothing that makes me imagine leaving this place. And maybe that's what I'm waiting for. An excuse to stop. Proof that I should stay. That this apartment is still mine. That Sebastian doesn't get to take this too.
Then Lyann stops scrolling. “Wait.”
I look over. “What?”
She turns the laptop toward me. “Look at this one.”
I look at the screen. The apartment is outside the city, but not too far. The rent is lower. The kitchen is small but bright. There are large windows in the living room and a small balcony overlooking trees rather than traffic.
I click through the photos slowly, then I go back to the first photo, and something in my chest shifts. Not excitement. I'm not ready for excitement yet, but hope? Maybe?
“What do you think?” Lyann asks quietly.
I don't answer. I stay silent, just imagining waking up somewhere else.
Somewhere Sebastian has never slept. Somewhere his toothbrush won't be sitting beside mine.
Somewhere I won't know exactly which cabinet holds his favorite mug or which floorboard creaks beneath his feet.
Somewhere there are no photos to take down.
No memories waiting around every corner.
No version of me still expecting him to walk through the door.
I stare at the apartment, and for the first time since Sebastian left, the future doesn't look like the one I lost. It doesn't look like much of anything yet. But maybe that's the point.