"She lost 10,000 followers in two months," Sarah said. "The brands dropped her. She's not an influencer anymore, Mark. She's Julian's assistant. She's working double shifts at a diner to pay for his film-developing costs because he refuses to get a 'capitalist slave job.'"
I looked out the window at the sunny street. I thought about the girl who sneered at me for ruining a photo. I thought about the entitlement.
"She cries a lot," Sarah added quietly. "She told me she didn't realize how much you did until the electricity got cut off last week."
"She didn't miss me," I said firmly. "She missed the electricity."
Sarah looked at me for a long moment, then nodded. "Yeah, you're probably right."
I walked away from that conversation feeling bulletproof. I continued to thrive. I got a promotion at work: Senior Logistics Manager. It came with a raise and a transfer to the downtown branch. I started looking for a condo, a place I owned—no renting, no roommates.
I was viewing a unit—a sleek, modern loft with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the skyline—when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It wasn't a text; it was a voicemail from a blocked number. I usually deleted them without listening, but something made me pause.
I stood on the balcony of what was about to be my new home, looking out at the city lights, and I pressed play:
"Mark... it's... it's me. I know you blocked me. I'm calling from a payphone. Are those even a thing anymore? God..." A wet, jagged inhale; she was crying, but it wasn't the tantrum crying of the vineyard. It sounded exhausted, broken. "I made a mistake. A huge mistake. Julian is... he's crazy, Mark. He sold my camera. He sold the camera you bought me. He said we needed the money for art supplies, but I think he just... I don't know." She sniffled. "I miss you. I miss us. I miss feeling safe. I'm at the Starbucks on 4th and Main. I don't have anywhere to go tonight. Please, just come talk to me. Just five minutes. I just need to see a friendly face. Please."
The message ended. I looked at the phone.
The Starbucks on 4th and Main was three blocks from where I was standing. I could walk there in five minutes. I could go save her. I could be the hero. I could swoop in, pay for a hotel, and listen to her apologize.
I looked at the view of the city. I looked at the "Sold" sign the realtor was holding in the other room.
I wasn't the hero of her story anymore; I was the protagonist of mine. But I knew I had to end this. If I didn't, she would keep calling from payphones and borrowing phones until the end of time. I needed to close the loop. I needed to look her in the eye one last time—not to save her, but to make sure she understood that the door was welded shut.
I walked back into the living room. "I'll take the condo," I told the realtor. "I can sign the papers tomorrow."
"Great!" she beamed. "Do you have any other appointments today?"
"Just one," I said, checking my watch. "I have to go take out the trash."
The Starbucks on 4th and Main was brightly lit: a fishbowl of fluorescent glare exposing everything inside. I saw her before I even opened the door. She was sitting at a small round table in the corner, staring into a cup of water—not a latte, not a refresher: free tap water in a plastic cup.