3. Elena
Elena
The apartment looks smaller when you’re leaving it. I’m not sure if that’s a real thing or just something my brain does to make the decision feel easier. Shrink it down. Make it look temporary. Disposable. Like it was never meant to hold anything important in the first place.
It’s not working.
It still smells faintly like burnt toast and cheap laundry detergent. Still has the same uneven patch of paint in the corner, which Liam swore he’d fix and never did. Still has the chair by the window that wobbles if you lean too far back, which I learned the hard way the second week we moved in.
I stand in the middle of the room with a half-packed suitcase and try not to do something stupid, like feel sentimental about it.
This place isn’t sentimental. It’s evidence.
I zip the suitcase halfway, then stop and look around again, just to make sure I’m not leaving anything behind.
There isn’t much to leave. A few clothes.
My laptop. Some books I never finished because everything got too loud in my head to focus long enough.
The rest of it—plates, mugs, a kettle that works if you hit it in the right place—I’m leaving.
None of it is worth carrying forward.
The lease agreement sits on the counter, a silent reminder of everything that’s left unfinished. Liam’s name still on it, his absence more profound now that I’ve signed my own future away. If the program doesn’t work out, nothing else will, either. I don’t have another plan.
I walk over and pick it up, even though I already know what it says. The paper’s starting to soften at the edges from being handled too much, like if I read it often enough, it might rewrite itself into something less binding.
It doesn’t.
Joint tenancy. Full liability. Which means when one person disappears, the other one doesn’t get to.
I lasted longer than I thought I would. Six months of covering his half. Six months of telling myself it was temporary, that something would shift, that I’d find a way to stabilize things before they tipped too far. Six months of watching the numbers not quite add up.
I drop the lease back onto the counter and reach for my phone.
Two missed calls this week from numbers I don’t recognize.
I don’t need to listen to the voicemails to know what they say.
Polite first. Then firm. Then less polite.
A reminder. A follow-up. A notice. I delete them without opening.
There’s nothing useful in hearing the same message delivered with slightly different wording.
My thumb hovers over another contact. Aoife. I don’t press it. She won’t answer. My sister didn’t answer last time, or the time before that. The last conversation we had ended with her telling me, very clearly, that this was my decision.
“You knew what you were doing when you followed him.”
I did.
“That doesn’t mean I have to help you fix it.”
She was right.
I still hate that she was right.
I lock my phone and set it down harder than necessary. Silence settles back into the apartment. The kind of silence that sits too heavily, like it’s waiting for something to break it and nothing does.
I move again because standing still feels like a mistake.
Kitchen first. I open the cupboards out of habit, even though I already know what’s inside.
Half a box of pasta. One tin of something I bought because it was on sale and never opened.
A mug with a chip on the rim. I close the cupboard.
No point doing inventory on what I’m not taking.
Bedroom next. The bed is unmade. Sheets twisted, one corner pulled loose. I don’t fix it. I won’t be sleeping here again.
That thought lands more solidly than anything else has. Not coming back. Not to this room. Not to this version of things where I’m constantly calculating how much longer I can stretch what I have.
I sit on the edge of the mattress, just for a second. And because I’m tired, and because my brain hates clean exits, it gives me one of the good memories first.
Liam, barefoot, standing in this exact room with a takeaway bag in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other like he’d just pulled off something impressive.
“I got the good one,” he’d said, grinning, shaking the bag slightly like I should be excited before I even saw it.
“You don’t know what I like,” I told him.
“I know enough.”
He didn’t, not really. But it didn’t matter then.
We sat on the floor because we didn’t have chairs yet, eating out of containers, knees bumping, him talking about everything at once.
Jobs, plans, how this was just the beginning of something better.
He leaned back against the bed like he already belonged there, like the future was something he could shape just by deciding it would work.
“You trust me, right?” he asked, casual, like it wasn’t a real question.
I remember looking at him, really looking, and thinking yes . I did. Not because he’d earned it. Because I wanted it to be true.
The memory lingers for half a second too long. Then the other one follows.
Of course it does.
Same room. Different light. Different version of him. Standing by the door this time, not inside the space but already halfway out of it.
“I can’t stay here, Elena.”
Not we need to fix this. Not we’ll figure it out. Just I can’t stay.
I remember the way my brain stalled on that sentence, like it hadn’t loaded properly.
“What do you mean you can’t stay?”
“I got something in London. It’s a better opportunity. I told you that.”
“You said you were looking.”
“I found something.”
“And the lease?” I asked, because of course that’s where my brain went. Not the relationship. Not the fact that he was leaving. The logistics. The consequences. The part someone had to handle.
He ran a hand through his hair, already impatient. “We’ll sort it.”
We .
“We,” I repeated, slower this time. “How?”
“I’ll send money when I can.”
When I can. That was the exact moment something in me shifted. “You’re not coming back,” I said.
He didn’t answer. Which was answer enough.
He left that afternoon. No fight. No scene. Just a bag, a quick kiss that felt more like habit than intention, and a door closing behind him like it didn’t mean anything.
And then it was just quiet. And everything he didn’t take stayed behind. Including the consequences.
I blink, the present snapping back into place around me. The room looks smaller again. Good. That’s better. That’s accurate.
I push myself up before the memory can settle into anything softer than it deserves, walking back into the main room and reaching for the folder sitting on the counter.
Cream. Heavy. I open the contract again.
Not because I need to reread it, but because I want to look at it without the pressure of him sitting across from me.
It reads differently here. Less like a negotiation.
More like a framework already waiting for me to step into it.
Housing is included, stable and fully managed, not dependent on whether someone else decides to disappear halfway through the lease.
Medical care is covered without qualification, which means I don’t have to calculate whether I can afford to get sick or pretend I’ll deal with it later.
The payments are scheduled, conditional, decided.
Never generous, never flexible, but consistent enough to build something on if I’m careful.
I turn to the payment schedule and let my eyes move down the page. Nine months. Recovery period. Final disbursement.
It isn’t a life-changing amount, but it’s enough to reset the board. To clear what’s already gone wrong, secure a deposit somewhere else, and start again without everything already stacked against me.
I don’t get a full rescue. But this… this is something I can work with.
I trace the edge of the page with my thumb, feeling the weight of it in a way that has nothing to do with paper. The terms are explicit, control built directly into the terms. Nothing is disguised as optional. Nothing is left vague enough to misunderstand.
He didn’t lie about any of it.
That’s almost the worst part.
I close the folder slowly, pressing it flat against the counter. “I stayed when he left,” I say out loud, because hearing it makes it harder to rewrite the past into something easier to carry.
The words don’t echo. They just settle.
“I can stay again.”
But this time, it isn’t the same kind of staying. This isn’t about waiting for someone to come back or hoping things correct themselves if I give them enough time. This is deliberate. A decision made with all the variables visible, not half hidden behind someone else’s promises.
This time, I’m not pretending there’s a better option I just haven’t found yet. This is the option. And I’m choosing it.
A sharp, bright ringtone cuts through the quiet. I glance at my phone. Unknown number. For a second, I consider letting it go to voicemail. Then I answer.
“Elena Rowe.”
“Hello, Ms. Rowe, this is Niamh O’Connor from the program. I hope I’m not catching you at a bad time.”
Her voice is warm. Efficient. The kind of pleasant that feels practiced rather than natural.
“No,” I say. “It’s fine.”
“I’m calling to arrange a viewing of the program housing. We’d like to get you settled as soon as possible, given your timeline.”
Timeline. Everything is a timeline now.
“Of course,” I reply. “When?”
“We have availability tomorrow afternoon or the following morning. Which would you prefer?”
I look around the apartment again. At the half-empty cupboards. The lease on the counter. The space that already feels like it’s rejecting me.
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“Excellent. I’ll text you the address and details. It’s in Ballsbridge, very close to the clinic. Fully furnished, all utilities included. You’ll just need to bring personal items.”
Personal items. I glance at my suitcase. “That won’t be a problem.”
“I’ll also go over the housing agreement with you on site,” she continues. “Standard terms, but it’s important you’re familiar with them before moving in.”
“I’ve read the contract.”
“Of course. This will just be a more detailed walkthrough.”
Everything walked through. Everything explained. Everything documented.
“Understood.”
There’s a brief pause. “We’re very pleased to have you in the program, Ms. Rowe.”
I almost laugh. Not because it’s funny. Because it’s so carefully phrased.
“Right,” I say instead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
We hang up. The silence returns, but it feels different now. I move without thinking this time. Zip the suitcase fully. Check the bathroom one last time. Grab my laptop and slide it into my bag.
I pause at the door, hand on the handle. There’s a moment, brief and irritating, where something in me wants to hesitate. To look back one more time. To acknowledge that this is the place where everything went wrong.
I don’t. There’s nothing here worth honoring.
I open the door. Step out. And pull it shut behind me with a quiet, final click.
I don’t lock it immediately but stand there for a second, key in hand, listening to the hallway. Someone moving upstairs. A television playing faintly through a wall. Normal life continuing in a space I’m stepping out of.
Then I lock it, sliding the key into my pocket and walking away without looking back.
I already know I’m not coming back.