Chapter 28 TALIA
TALIA
The Hardest Goodbye
Ilie awake beside him, staring at the ceiling like it might offer answers.
Jake sleeps on his back, one arm flung above his head, the other resting too close to me, close enough that if I moved an inch I’d be touching him. His breathing is slow and deep, the steady rhythm of a man who worked hard all day and feels safe enough to let go.
Safe.
The word squeezes my throat.
Because I am the opposite of safe.
I replay his face from earlier, over and over, like my brain is punishing me on a loop.
The way his eyes lit up when he told me about the gallery.
Not just proud. Happy.
Like he’d been carrying that excitement all day like a gift and couldn’t wait to place it in my hands.
A gallery. For my work. For me.
But the guilt I feel is crushing me.
I turn my head toward him in the dark and watch his profile. The strong line of his jaw. The faint shadow of stubble. The way his mouth softens when he’s asleep, like the world can’t touch him.
He’s finally happy.
And I’m about to destroy everything.
I swallow hard and close my eyes, trying to force sleep.
It doesn’t come.
Instead my mind starts spinning out scenarios of how Jake will react when I tell him I’m pregnant.
Scenario one: disbelief.
Jake blinking at me, that hard captain’s stare on his face, like he’s waiting for me to say just kidding. Like he can’t wrap his head around the idea that I could be the kind of person who would do this.
I picture him saying my name like a warning.
“Talia.”
I picture myself trying to explain. Trying to justify. Words tumbling out too fast.
And the quiet horror on his face when he realizes I’m serious.
Scenario two: anger.
Jake sitting up fast, eyes blazing, the vein in his neck jumping, his voice a harsh whisper.
“What the hell did you do?”
I picture him pacing. Dragging a hand through his hair. Swearing. Slamming his palm against the wall.
I picture him looking at me like I’m a stranger.
Like the woman he’s been making dinner with, waking up beside, touching like she matters… is gone.
Scenario three: resignation.
That one might be the worst.
Jake’s shoulders sagging. His eyes going distant. His voice going flat.
“Okay.”
Like he expected this eventually. Like he’s disappointed but not surprised. Like I was always going to leave.
And then there’s the truly unbearable version.
The one that hits me in the ribs and won’t let go.
Him staying out of duty. Against his will. Resenting me for it for the rest of his life.
Because he’s the kind of man who does what he thinks is right, even when it destroys him.
I don’t want that.
I don’t want him to feel trapped.
I stare at the ceiling again and feel tears burn behind my eyes.
Leaving is the most loving thing I can do.
It’s the only way to protect him.
The decision settles in my chest like something heavy and final.
I lie there for another hour, maybe two, listening to Jake breathe. Listening to the house creak softly. Listening to Bear sigh on the rug at the foot of the bed like he’s dreaming.
At some point, Jake shifts, half asleep. His hand brushes my hip.
My entire chest squeezes.
I hold my breath until he stills again.
Then I whisper into the dark, so quietly I’m not sure it counts as sound.
“I’m sorry.”
***
Morning comes too fast.
Grey light filters through the curtains. The room is cool.
Jake gets up early, like always. I keep my eyes closed when he moves, pretending I’m asleep.
I feel the bed dip as he sits to pull on socks. I hear the quiet rustle of clothes. The soft click of his watch clasping around his wrist.
He pauses near the bed, but then just leaves.
The door clicks quietly behind him.
And the silence that follows is enormous.
I sit up slowly, hair falling around my face, heart pounding.
Bear is already awake now. “Hey,” I whisper, kneeling down. “Hi, buddy.”
He presses his head into my chest.
My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
I stroke his fur slowly.
“I’m going to give him space,” I tell him, even though it feels like I’m really saying it to myself.
Bear huffs like he disagrees.
I stand up and look around the room.
My toothbrush is in the bathroom beside his.
My brush is on the dresser.
My favorite hoodie of his is draped over the chair.
There are small pieces of me everywhere.
Like I’ve been here forever.
I take a shaky breath and walk to the closet.
I pack slowly and methodically.
I fold clothes and place them into my suitcase. I wrap my art supplies in a towel. I tuck in my sketchbook.
I pause when my fingers brush Jake’s hoodie.
The one I love.
It’s soft and worn, smells like him and laundry detergent and something that feels like safety.
I hold it against my face for half a second.
Then I fold it and put it in the suitcase.
Bear reappears in the doorway with a toy in his mouth and drops it at my feet like he’s offering solutions.
I laugh once, broken and wet.
“Not helping,” I whisper.
When I drag the suitcase into the hallway, Bear follows.
And then he does the thing that breaks me.
He sits on it. Right on top of the suitcase.
Like a small furry bouncer.
Like: absolutely not.
I stare at him.
He stares back.
His eyes are too smart.
My throat closes.
“Oh, Bear,” I whisper.
I crouch down and wrap my arms around him, burying my face in his fur.
He’s warm. Solid. Home.
My chest heaves once.
I hate that this is happening.
I hate that leaving feels like tearing off skin.
"You stay here, okay?” I whisper into his fur. “Someone has to keep him company.”
Bear licks my cheek like he’s forgiving me.
I pull back and wipe my face quickly. Then I stand and grab my phone, because I need to do one more thing.
I walk into the kitchen and open the drawer where he keeps random things—rubber bands, spare keys, pens that sometimes work and sometimes don’t.
I pull out a sheet of paper.
My hand trembles as I flatten it on the counter.
Bear pads into the kitchen behind me and sits down near my feet, watching quietly.
“Don’t look at me like that,” I murmur, though there’s no strength in my voice.
I pick up a pen.
But is there anything I can write that will make this better?
I start.
I can’t do this anymore.
No. Not right.
I scribble it out.
I’m sorry. I never meant—
I stop halfway through the sentence. Never meant what? I cross the line out.
Please don’t hate me.
Not good enough.
There’s nothing I can write to explain this. Every explanation feels like a trap.
So I write the only thing I can manage.
I’m sorry. I just need some time.
That’s it.
I fold the paper carefully, pressing the crease flat with my fingers like that somehow makes it more real.
My hands feel cold as I set the note on the kitchen counter.
Right in the center.
Where Jake will see it the moment he walks in.
My chest twists so hard I have to grip the edge of the counter.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper to the empty room.
Then I turn away before I can change my mind.