“He’s basically just a roommate.”
“I’m still single.”
“He’s good for now.”
“Pays the bills.”
“Doesn’t ask questions.”
Around midnight, her friends finally left.
Lauren came into the bedroom tipsy, carrying a half-empty glass of water and scrolling through her phone.
She looked at me.
“Why didn’t you come out?”
I kept my eyes on the laptop.
“I was tired.”
She frowned.
“You knew everyone was here.”
“Yeah.”
“You could’ve at least said hi.”
“Long day.”
She stared at me for a moment.
“Why are you being weird?”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m tired, Lauren.”
She rolled her eyes.
“God, you’re boring sometimes.”
Normally that comment would have bothered me.
That night, it barely registered.
She changed into pajamas, climbed into bed, kissed my shoulder like everything was normal, and kept scrolling.
Within twenty minutes, she was asleep.
I wasn’t.
I lay there beside her staring at the ceiling.
I tried imagining confronting her in the morning.
I pictured the conversation.
She would say it was a joke.
She would say I was being too sensitive.
She would say I misunderstood.
Then she would cry.
Then I would feel guilty.
Somehow, after an hour of talking, I would probably end up comforting her for something she had done to me.
That realization was almost worse than overhearing the conversation.
Because it meant I already knew the pattern.
Around three in the morning, I got out of bed and went into the kitchen.
The apartment was quiet.
Wine glasses still covered the coffee table.
One of her friends had left a lipstick stain on a glass.
A bowl of chips sat half-finished beside the couch.
I looked around the apartment and started mentally assigning everything.
My television.
My couch.
My dining table.
Coffee machine I bought.
Desk I bought.
Bed frame I bought.
Kitchen knives I bought.
Most of the apartment had been furnished with my money.
I could have stripped the place almost empty.
I could have taken every piece of furniture that belonged to me and left her with a mattress and three decorative pillows.
For a few minutes, I considered it.
Then I decided against it.
I didn’t want revenge.
I wanted separation.
Clean lines.
No arguments about property.
No reason for her to accuse me of destroying the apartment or leaving her without furniture.
I went back to bed sometime before four.
I don’t think I ever really fell asleep.
By morning, I knew exactly what I was going to do.
Saturday felt surreal.
Sunlight came through the blinds like it was any other weekend.
Lauren woke up around ten, groaning dramatically.
“My head is killing me.”
I was sitting at the kitchen table drinking coffee.
“Do we have ibuprofen?”
“Bathroom cabinet.”
“Can you get it?”
I almost laughed.
Instead, I got up, brought her two tablets and a glass of water.
She swallowed them, smiled, kissed my cheek and said, “You’re the best.”
For the first time, those words sounded completely different.
Not romantic.
Transactional.
I wondered how many times she had said them immediately after I did something for her.
Around eleven, she started getting ready for brunch.
With the same friends.
She stood in front of the bedroom mirror trying on two outfits.
“What do you think?”
“Either one’s fine.”
She turned.
“That means you hate both.”
“No. They’re fine.”
She studied my face.
“You’re still being weird.”
“Just tired.”
She shrugged.
“Okay.”
Then she grabbed her purse.
“Can I use your card for brunch? I’m waiting for my deposit to clear.”
I looked at her.
That moment was so absurd I almost thought I had imagined it.
Less than fifteen hours earlier, she had laughed about me paying her bills.
Now she was asking me to finance brunch with the people she had laughed with.
“No,” I said.
She blinked.
“What?”
“Use yours.”
She frowned.
“My account is low.”
“Then maybe don’t spend much.”
She gave me a strange look.
“Okay?”
I didn’t explain.
Eventually she left.
The front door closed.
I waited thirty seconds.
Then I got to work.
I didn’t rage pack.
I didn’t start throwing clothes into garbage bags.
There was no dramatic music playing in my head.
I moved slowly.
Methodically.
Clothes first.
The things I actually wore.
My work shirts.
Jeans.
Boots.
Old college hoodies.
A jacket my brother gave me.
I left behind a couple shirts Lauren had bought because she hated the way I dressed.
Then I packed my documents.
Passport.
Birth certificate.
Tax paperwork.
Insurance information.
Work files.
Laptop.
External hard drives.
Chargers.
A box containing some things from my grandfather.
Anything irreplaceable came first.
Then toiletries.
Books.
My coffee mug.
A few kitchen things that had sentimental value.
While cleaning out my desk drawer, I found a stack of receipts.
I had kept them mostly out of habit.
I started flipping through them.
Security deposit.
$2,400.
Paid by me.
First month’s rent.
Mostly me.
Utility setup fees.
Me.
New couch.
Me.
Moving truck.
Me.
Internet installation.
Me.
There were dozens.
Maybe hundreds if I checked my email.
I sat there for a moment looking at them.
When we first moved in, Lauren had hugged me in the empty apartment and said, “This is ours.”
At the time, that had meant everything to me.
Now I realized the word “ours” had apparently applied emotionally.
Financially, it was mostly mine.
By noon, I had packed four boxes and two suitcases.
The apartment looked different already.
Not empty.
Just less like I lived there.
Then I opened my banking apps.
This part required more attention.
I didn’t want to do anything stupid or illegal.
We didn’t have a joint bank account.
I didn’t touch her money.
I didn’t cancel services in her name.
I didn’t drain anything.
I simply stopped paying bills that belonged to her or that I was voluntarily covering.
First, my credit card.
Lauren was an authorized user.
Removed.
Then I logged out of shopping accounts where my card was saved.
Amazon.
Food delivery.