Chapter Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Seven
“It’s the right thing to do. Why?”
The message came in just after eight. I was lying on my bed, half-listening to the hum of traffic outside, my laptop open, but I’d forgotten why. The glow of my phone lit up the ceiling before I even glanced at it.
Paul:
You stopped replying, and I think something’s wrong.
I don’t deserve anything, but tell me you’re okay.
I swallowed hard because it was so… him, like a staple: confusing to the core. That mix of guilt and concern, like he wanted credit for noticing, but didn’t want to dig deep enough to know. The bubbles appeared again.
Paul:
I wasn’t sure if I should text, but… I wanted you to hear it from me before HR or anyone else starts talking. I resigned today. Moving to Portland next week. It’s… good. I feel it’s the right thing to do. Anyway. I hope you’re okay, Alicia. I really do. I always did.
I stared at the words, the contrast between the white screen and the dim evening light almost blinding me.
The right thing to do. I wanted to laugh at the screen or at my family’s framed picture, the smiles mocking me, but I didn’t have the energy for either.
This wasn’t how I had pictured telling him, not that I’d had some grand plan, and couldn’t exactly copy Mia’s.
But… I don’t know. I thought maybe there’d be a moment, a conversation with decaf coffee, where we both could be adults.
Where I could look him in the eye and say: This is what happened, and these are the consequences.
But Paul was already gone, packing up his life, chasing his idea of second chances. And here I was, holding the one thing he hadn’t planned for. I reached for my bag, fingers brushing over the sandwich bag with the tests inside.
I stared at his chat window for a long time. I thought about writing a poetic letter to soften the blow, or at least something practical like we need to talk.
But no simple, warm, or angry text could make this easier, so I did the only thing left. I sent the photo with the contents of the sad Ziploc bag with a short caption:
Me:
It’s the right thing to do. That you know. A>
I set the phone down, my chest tight in a way that had nothing to do with fear, and everything to do with disappointment. I didn’t check if he’d seen it, just closed my eyes and let the weight of it settle. There was never going to be a good way.
The message came at 2:43 a.m. I was still drifting in that space where thoughts get too loud to rest. When my phone buzzed, I looked at the time and didn’t need to look to know it was him.
I let it sit there for a moment before I finally reached over. Did I really want to see this?
Paul:
Is this real?
Three words. As if reality was something I could invent, as if this was just another one of his bad dreams he could wake up from.
I stared at the screen until it dimmed, my reflection barely visible in the glass.
I could’ve replied yes. I could’ve called, I could’ve screamed, but deep down I knew that wasn’t a question looking for an answer.
He knew the answer. It was just fear, typed out at 2:43 a.m. I set the phone down, wishing I could shut out more than just the light.
By morning, nothing had changed; there were no follow-ups or questions.
At work, Paul’s desk was empty. His colleague from the IT department mentioned seeing Paul at 7 a.m., looking as though he had a rough night.
Last days in Nanaimo, must have partied hard, smelled like booze, took his jacket and mug, and left.
Last things to pack, probably. He asked if I needed help with the printer, email, or something else; I couldn’t recall.
I barely reacted, too tired to explain a storm no one else could see.
So he’s leaving, that part was real. Mia checked in around noon.
Mia:
Are your headaches any better? And how’s your other headache? Did you tell him?
Me:
Still standing. The reality of it hasn’t hit me yet. He texted, “Is it real?” That’s all.
But by six, his name lit up on my screen again, to my surprise.
Paul:
I don’t know how to deal with this. That’s fucked up.
I didn’t know what that even meant. I stared at those words, wishing, just once, he’d say something that sounded like a plan, not a confession. Something that could help me comprehend all this.
Me:
Can we talk, Paul? Like people, not text.
The blue tick appeared. He read the message, but didn’t reply until two hours later.
Paul:
Why
Paul couldn’t find words in poetry or music anymore. It wasn’t a mean why: he was mortified or drunk. Because some things don’t get to stay on a screen. Some truths deserve to be discussed, options considered, even if they land like glass shattering on concrete. That’s what I really wanted to say.
Me:
Out of respect. Because I deserve that talk.
He didn’t reply. I shuddered, sweat trickled down my forehead, my hand trembled, but at least I felt calmer afterward. I knew what to do. I grabbed my jacket, thumb over my phone before sending Mia a quick text.
Me:
Going to see him before he leaves Nanaimo for good. I won’t stay long.
Mia:
Want backup? Or a getaway car?
I breathed out through my nose, something between a laugh and a sigh.
Me:
It’s okay. This isn’t a battle. It’s just a conversation that should be done between two adults.
I tucked my phone away, feeling its weight like a reminder of what I was carrying, of his why, written without a question mark or a complete stop.
As I stepped outside, the evening air hit me, fresh and cool, a slight wind coming from the mountains and rainforests behind me.
A faint memory of wing tips soaring through the breeze.
I let it fill my lungs, grounding me in the most straightforward fact: I wasn’t going there for drama or hope.
I was going because half of him was growing somewhere in me, even if I myself couldn’t quite comprehend it yet, and I still believed Paul was a half-decent human being who could acknowledge that.
Whatever version of Paul answered that door, I’d face him. I just forgot this wasn’t a normal situation, this wasn’t a flight manual, and Paul was never going to be a regular guy.