forty
A/N damn chapter 40 yall
The air in Texas pressed heavy against my skin, thicker somehow than the air back home.
It wasn't the heat exactly—it was the weight of it, the way it clung to you, made every breath feel like you were swallowing sun.
Even in the evenings, when the cicadas started their endless chorus and the neighbors' sprinklers sputtered to life, the heaviness stayed.
Tati and Seth's house sat quiet in the middle of it all. A neat little place just outside Dallas, with white siding and wide windows that faced out onto a street lined with manicured lawns.
I'd been here a week, and I still hadn't unpacked my suitcase.
It sat open on the floor of the guest room, spilling over with dresses, heels, and wrinkled tops that smelled faintly of his detergent—Brooks's, not mine.
I'd shoved them in too fast when I left Jersey, too angry to fold, too numb to think.
Now they just lay there like a reminder, each piece daring me to pretend I wasn't running.
I kept the blinds drawn most of the time. Outside, kids rode bikes down the street, voices bright and untangled.
Tati wasn't here—she'd gone to Philly for Sam's graduation.
She'd asked me to come, but the thought of setting foot in that city again made my chest tighten like I couldn't breathe.
I told her I was tired, needed space. She hadn't pushed.
That was the difference between her and Sam. Tati knew when silence was enough.
The house without her felt cavernous. Every sound echoed—the hum of the refrigerator, the occasional groan of the air conditioner kicking on. At night, I lay awake listening to the creak of the ceiling fan above my bed, counting its rotations like they could replace sleep.
I'd tried cooking one night, just to fill the silence.
Pasta, something simple. But when I pulled the colander from the cabinet, it reminded me of Brooks rinsing blueberries one morning in his kitchen, shirtless, humming to himself like he didn't know I was watching.
I shoved the pot back in the cabinet so hard the lid clanged against the shelf, and I ended up eating crackers over the sink instead.
I hadn't stepped outside in three days.
My phone was the only thing that cut through the quiet, but even that I tried to ignore.
It buzzed at regular intervals, a rhythm my body had memorized even if I didn't look.
Face down on the nightstand, the screen lit up every time, spilling light across the dark room.
Sometimes I picked it up just to see the number.
Brooks. Always Brooks.
Fifty-three missed calls the first night. Then thirty-two. Then seventy. His messages blurred into one long plea, each one clawing at me in different ways.
"Amira, please. Just tell me where you are."
"I swear I'll fix it. Don't shut me out."
"I love you. I need you. I'm begging you."
"Say something. Anything."
I never responded. My thumbs hovered sometimes, tracing over the keyboard, ready to give in. But then I'd remember Sam's face, her voice sharp and unrelenting—You think he chose you? No, Mira. He hid you. And I'd shove the phone back down, screen first, like burying a snake before it could bite.
The silence between us stretched like a wound I couldn't stitch. And yet, every time his name lit up, my chest pulled tight, like I could feel the distance between Jersey and Texas shrinking, like his voice might somehow break through if I just pressed "accept."
But I didn't.
Instead, I walked circles through the house, barefoot on the cool tile floors, trying not to drown in my own thoughts.
I wandered from the guest room to the kitchen, past the empty dining room, into the living room where a leather couch still smelled new.
Seth's football gear was stacked in a corner, his name stitched bold on one of the bags.
Even from here, even without Tati, their life felt solid.
Chosen. They'd built something together.
I thought of how Tati had smiled when she first told me she was leaving Philly, when Seth signed his new contract. She'd been nervous, sure, but her joy outweighed it, like she knew she'd land on her feet.
I tried to remember the last time I'd felt that way.
Maybe it was in Mykonos, before everything soured.
The first night, standing barefoot on a balcony overlooking the water, Brooks's arms wrapped around me from behind.
The sea breeze tangling my hair, the warmth of his mouth on my shoulder.
For a moment, it had felt infinite. Safe.
Real. I'd let myself believe that we could exist outside the world, outside his family, his career, all of it.
Here, alone in Texas, the pieces cut deeper.
I curled up on the couch, knees tucked under me, and stared at the blank wall across from me. No TV, no art, nothing to distract me. Just a reflection of my own emptiness staring back.
Was this what it meant to start over? To disappear into a place where no one knew my name, where the quiet swallowed you whole?
I pressed my palms together, resting them against my lips, and let the silence answer.
The quiet got worse at night. That was when my phone felt the loudest, when every vibration on the nightstand rattled straight through me. I'd turn it face down, bury it under a sweater, even shove it in the closet once—but still, I felt it.
And if it wasn't Brooks, it was temptation.
Instagram sat on my home screen like an open wound. I told myself I'd just scroll, just look at memes, recipes, anything—but my thumb always drifted toward the search bar, always typed his name, always hovered over hers. Margot.
Her profile had gone from subtle to blinding in the weeks since that dinner.
Perfectly curated snapshots: the pearl earrings at a luncheon, the flashbulbs catching her outside some gala, a tight smile under perfect lighting.
Brooks in the background sometimes, or in the next frame, or tagged by a friend of a friend.
He always looked like he belonged there, like the whole world had been dressed to match him.
I caught myself one night, heart racing as I tapped through her stories, waiting—hoping—for some mistake, some crack in the armor.
Some proof that he wasn't as happy as he looked.
But instead, all I saw was her hand resting too close to his arm, her laugh angled toward him like the camera knew it should capture it.
I closed the app so hard I nearly cracked the screen.
The next morning, I blocked her. Not just her—everyone.
Anyone who'd ever tagged him, followed him, even whispered his name in pixels.
Clean sweep. Then I muted every political keyword on Twitter, scrubbed my feed bare so I wouldn't see his family's name trending, wouldn't stumble into headlines with his photo plastered across the top.
It should've felt freeing. Instead, it felt like trying to bandage a wound with gauze that wouldn't stop soaking through.
Sam's name lingered at the top of my contacts, bolded in missed texts I hadn't touched. The last one she sent was short—"I'm walking tomorrow. Wish you were here."
I stared at it until the words blurred, until the letters seemed to shift into something else. Wish you cared. Wish you showed up. Wish you were the friend I thought you were.
But I hadn't gone. I couldn't. The thought of standing in that crowd, clapping for her as she crossed the stage, pretending like we hadn't torn each other apart in her kitchen—that wasn't something I could stomach.
She'd stood by me through worse, I knew that.
Years of late nights and shared secrets, of being the one person who never flinched when I said the truth out loud.
But the way she looked at me that night—the way her words cut deep and clean—He didn't choose you, Mira.
He hid you. I couldn't unhear it. I couldn't forgive it. Not yet.
I curled deeper into the couch, pulling Tati's throw blanket around my shoulders even though the room wasn't cold.
The graduation had been yesterday. Sam was probably out celebrating somewhere now, her blonde hair catching the light of a restaurant candle, her laugh shaking champagne flutes.
She'd been a part of my life for so long, and for the first time I wasn't in hers.
I hadn't seen her walk, hadn't screamed her name from the crowd.
That hurt more than I wanted to admit.
I tucked my phone under the pillow and shut my eyes, but the silence didn't let me rest. It pressed down, thick and endless, reminding me that no matter how many calls I ignored, how many blocks I set, how many memories I tried to smother—I couldn't escape the weight of what I'd lost.
The next morning came in slow, like even the sun wasn't sure it wanted to rise.
I hadn't really slept. The couch cushions dug into my ribs and every time I shut my eyes, I saw the glow of my phone screen behind my lids, the little bubbles of missed calls, the weight of messages I hadn't read.
By the time light finally pushed through the blinds, I was sitting upright, staring at the dust mites drifting in the air like they had someplace better to be.
I hadn't realized how much of Tati's energy filled the place until it was gone. She was always humming something under her breath, or moving around with that effortless rhythm that made her feel like she belonged anywhere. Now it was just me and the silence.
But by afternoon, the silence broke.
I heard it first—the familiar scrape of her key against the lock, the push of the door swinging open. Her voice floated in before I even saw her.
"Whew, Texas heat hits different when you've been running around airports."
I sat up straighter as she came in, dragging her carry-on behind her. Her hair was pulled back into a neat bun, her skin still glowing under the overhead light. There was something about her face—softer, fuller maybe—that I couldn't quite place.
She dropped her bag with a sigh and finally looked at me. "Well, damn. You look like you've been fighting demons."
I tried to laugh, but it came out flat. "And I lost."