4. Mia
Chapter Four
Mia
The first thing to go into a box is my favorite coffee mug.
It's not important or meaningful, but it’s the biggest one I own, and more caffeine means more happiness. That's been my mantra since… well, since forever.
It's served me better than most of the self-help articles I've doomscrolled through at two in the morning this week.
I wrap it carefully in a sheet of newspaper, an actual physical newspaper that Lyann brought over because she's weirdly old-fashioned about some things, and place it in the corner of the box.
There.
First item packed. I stare at it, then at the box, then back at the mug. “This is stupid.”
“What was that?” Lyann calls from the bathroom.
“Nothing.”
It isn't nothing.
The apartment application is still pending. I haven't been approved. I haven't signed anything. Technically, I haven't even decided to move.
But this morning, after spending twenty minutes staring at Sebastian's jacket still hanging over the dining chair, I pulled my lease from the junk drawer and read the section on subleasing three times.
Allowed with management approval. So I emailed them.
And now my favorite coffee mug is wrapped in newspaper like I'm actually going somewhere.
My phone chimes from the kitchen counter, and my entire body reacts before my brain does. My heart jumps, and my stomach tightens.
For one humiliating second, I think it might be Sebastian.
I hate myself for it.
I reach for the phone anyway, but it’s not him. It’s just an email. The preview shows the name of the apartment complex from the listing Lyann and I found, and my stomach does an entirely different kind of drop.
I open it.
Thank you for your application. Your request is currently under review. We expect to provide a decision within two to three business days.
That's good. It’s not an approval, but it’s not a rejection either. Now, we’re just waiting. Apparently, my life is really committed to that theme lately. I set the phone facedown on the counter and keep packing things.
“What happened?” Lyann calls.
“Nothing.”
She appears in the bathroom doorway, holding a bottle of expired Advil in one hand and what looks like a hotel shampoo bottle from 2019 in the other.
Her dark hair is pulled into a messy bun, and she's wearing an oversized T-shirt that says, ‘I’M NOT ARGUING, I'M JUST EXPLAINING WHY I'M RIGHT’. Very on brand.
She holds up the Advil. “This expired two years ago.”
“Google says most medicine is still fine for a while after it expires.”
“Google also tells people every headache is a brain tumor.” She drops it into the garbage bag, and I gasp. “You'll thank me when you don't die from vintage ibuprofen.”
“That's not a thing.”
“Neither is keeping four half-used bottles of conditioner, but here we are.”
“They're different scents.”
“They're all coconut adjacent. Don't fight me on this.” I laugh, and it feels good. Laughing for real after all the shit I've been through lately feels strange. The sound surprises me enough that I stop for a second. Lyann notices, but she doesn't point it out. I'm grateful for that.
We work in comfortable silence for a while, the sound of packing tape and rustling newspaper filling the apartment.
Sorting and packing. I move from the kitchen to the living room, where the real emotional landmines are waiting.
The bookshelf Sebastian and I built together one Sunday afternoon using instructions that made us both want to commit murder.
The throw pillows his mom gave us last Christmas.
The framed photo from our trip to Portland, where we're both grinning like idiots outside some famous donut shop.
“What are you going to do with the photos?” Lyann asks.
“I don't know.”
She comes to stand beside me. “It feels wrong to throw them away,” I say. “Like I'm erasing six years of my life.”
“You're not erasing anything.”
I look at her.
“Those years happened,” she says. “They were real. You loved him. He loved you. Whatever happened at the end doesn't mean every single day before it was fake.”
Something in my chest tightens. I look back at the photo. That's the part I can't figure out. How something can be real and still end. How someone can love you and still betray you. How six years can be both the happiest years of your life and the thing that breaks you.
“But,” Lyann continues, “you also don't have to stare at his face every time you're trying to watch television.”
A laugh slips out of me, “So what's the middle ground?”
“A shoebox.”
I glance at her. “Seriously?”
“Put the photos away. Back of the closet. Somewhere you can find them if you ever want them, but not somewhere they get to ambush you every day.”
I look down at the picture again. Then I turn the frame over and remove the back. “The shoe box it is.”
“Frame?”
“Donate.”
“Look at you making decisions.” I place the photograph carefully on the coffee table. Lyann picks up the empty frame and carries it toward the donation box. “And speaking of emotional avoidance—”
“No.” I groan.
We walk toward the bedroom together. I slow down before I reach the doorway. The room looks different now. Emptier. Sebastian came back a few days ago to collect most of his things.
I wasn't here.
Thank God my period came early, and I had to run to the store to pick up some tampons. Now that I think about it, that has been the only moment I’ve been out of the apartment.
Twenty-three minutes.
That's how long it took him. I know because as soon as I saw the notification on the front door camera, I checked the time, and when he left, I checked again. Twenty-three minutes to remove most of himself from a home we'd shared for years.
When I came back upstairs, his side of the closet was empty. His shoes were gone. The drawers in his nightstand were open. The jacket over the dining chair was still there. Some small things were forgotten.
Things I still haven't decided what to do with.
“Okay,” Lyann says carefully. No clapping this time. No jokes. I appreciate that too. “I'll do the bed.” I nod. “You do the closet?”Another nod.
I open the closet door. My clothes hang on the left. Empty space stretches across most of the right. There are three of Sebastian's T-shirts shoved near the back. I used to sleep in them. Maybe that's why he left them. Or maybe he truly forgot. I reach for the first one.
Soft from years of washing. I bring it closer before I can stop myself.
It still smells like him. Faintly, but it does.
For one second, I'm back in bed on a Sunday morning with his arm around my waist. Coffee on the nightstand.
His mouth against my shoulder. Nowhere to be.
Nothing wrong yet. My throat closes. I shove the shirt into the trash bag. Then immediately pull it back out.
I stand there holding it. “This is pathetic.”
“No, it isn't.”
“He cheated on me.”
“Yep.”
“I should want to burn this.”
“Probably.” I look at her, and she shrugs. “Hey, feelings are inconvenient. We all know that.” A broken laugh escapes me. I fold the shirt, then I place it in a small box near the closet.
Lyann looks at the box. “What category is that?”
“I don't know yet.”
She nods. “Fair.”
The other two shirts go in with it, and I keep moving.
A navy-blue dress catches my eye. I bought it for Sebastian's company party last year.
It's uncomfortable, too tight across my chest, and the kind of thing I would never choose for myself.
I wore it because I thought it made me look like the kind of girlfriend who fit into his world.
I pull it from the hanger. “This can go.”
“Donate?”
“Absolutely.”
Lyann takes it from me. “No emotional crisis?”
“I hated that dress before he cheated.” She just nods and keeps packing. We keep going like that. Books from the nightstand are mine. The alarm clock is his, so donate. Then I reach the jewelry box, and I stop.
“Oh no,” Lyann says.
“What?”
“You made a face.” I totally made a face. When I open the box, there it is. The necklace Sebastian gave me for our fifth anniversary. A delicate silver chain with a small pendant. It's beautiful, annoyingly beautiful.
“Do you like it?” Lyann asks.
“What?”
“The necklace, Mia. Do you like it?”
“Yes.”
“Then keep it.”
“Isn't that weird?”
“Why would it be weird?”
“Because my cheating ex-boyfriend gave it to me.”
Lyann shrugs. “He cheated on you. He didn't retroactively invent silver jewelry.”
I stare at her, and she stares back, making a face. Then I laugh. Harder than I expect. “That's your advice?”
“My advice is that if you like the necklace, keep the necklace. If looking at it makes you want to drive to his office and commit a felony, don't.”
I look down at the pendant. “It doesn't.”
“Then there's your answer.”
I run my thumb over the silver. The memory attached to it still hurts, but the necklace is still beautiful. And it's mine.
“Keep,” I say.
By the time the bedroom is mostly done, the apartment looks worse than when we started.
There are boxes everywhere. Half-empty shelves.
Cabinet doors open. A pile of things near the front door marked DONATE.
Another marked SEBASTIAN, even though I don't know when I'll text him about it.
And one small box in the bedroom with no label at all.
I stand in the living room and look around. For three years, this has been home. Sebastian and I hosted dinner parties here. Burned food here. Fought here. Made up here. Watched terrible movies here. Talked about houses, weddings, and children here.
I thought we'd leave this apartment together. I thought moving out would mean something good. Maybe getting a house, having more space. Or finally making the next step. I never imagined cardboard boxes on the floor and his name written in black marker across one of them.
“You okay?” Lyann asks.
I think about lying, but I don’t see the point. “Not really.”
She nods.
“But maybe a little more than yesterday.” Her expression softens. She smiles and hands me a glass of water.
We keep working, filling more boxes as we go.