Over time, the sharp edges of grief dulled into quiet, hollow acceptance. I stripped the apartment of everything that had made it feel alive and warm. Even the furniture I had personally selected was replaced with stark, modern pieces—black, white, minimalist, emotionless—the way the space had first appeared when I had moved in, untouched and pristine.
The night before my departure, I considered calling Caleb one last time. Perhaps I needed closure, or maybe I simply wanted him to fight for me, to offer a reason to stay, to remind me that I mattered. But every time I dialed his number, I hesitated, heart pounding with uncertainty—and then I never pressed “call.”
Finally, a message arrived from him:
"If you haven’t admitted your mistake and apologized to Marina, there’s nothing left for us to discuss."
I stared at the screen, lips twisting into a bitter, hollow smile. Seven years together. Seven years I had trusted him, loved him, and stood by him—and he still blamed me. He hadn’t once asked for my side of the story. Not once had he considered how his actions might have affected me. All those years, dismissed with a single, cold message.