The apartment smelled like dust and cheap paint, but it was hers.

There was a mattress on the floor, a thrifted table, and boxes that looked too heavy for one person to lift — because they were. She had made one trip and left the rest in her car, deciding she’d unpack her life slowly. Maybe if she unwrapped herself box by box, the pain would feel less sharp.

The silence was overwhelming. It filled the space in a way his presence never had. Her phone was quiet. No goodnight texts. No “where are you?” Just notifications from apps trying to sell her calm and healing in the form of subscriptions.

She made herself tea, though she wasn’t sure why. She wasn’t cold. It didn’t even taste good. But it gave her something to hold, something warm, something that didn’t ask for anything back.

She stood in front of the window, watching the lights flicker in other buildings. People living other lives. Laughing. Arguing. Existing. And here she was — alone in a city that suddenly felt bigger than it ever had.

She curled up on the mattress with a pillow that didn’t smell like him. It was a small mercy.

She didn’t cry that night, not the loud kind of crying. Just quiet tears, sliding sideways into the blanket, soaking into the fabric like a secret. Her body mourned what her mind already knew — that love shouldn’t feel like surrender.

The night was long. Her mind ran laps around every decision, every moment she could’ve stayed, every way she could’ve fought harder. But she knew it wouldn’t have mattered.

She wasn’t mourning him.
She was mourning the girl who tried so hard to be loved, she forgot how to love herself.