The apartment is asleep.
Josh's door is closed. His light has been off for hours. The refrigerator hums like it is trying to keep a secret. Outside, the city has settled into its late-night rhythm. Sirens come less often now. Voices are lower. Footsteps echo instead of colliding. It is the hour when thoughts stop pretending to be manageable.
I sit at the small kitchen table with my laptop open, cursor blinking like it expects me to perform.
I don't.
I tell the truth.
The words come easier than they should. That is what unsettles me. There is no resistance, no tug of war between what I feel and what I am willing to admit. The sentences line up. They know where they are going. They do not stall or circle or apologize.
I scroll back and read a paragraph twice.
There is no ache in it. No reaching. No longing disguised as metaphor.
The longing is gone.
Not replaced with happiness. Replaced with clarity.
Pain has not vanished. It has condensed. Pressurized. Like something that learned how to aim.
I close my eyes for a moment and let that sit. I should feel relieved. Instead, I feel alert. Like a room after the furniture has been stripped out. Every sound sharper. Every corner visible.
I reach for the bottle without thinking.
It is not dramatic. My hands are steady. My breath is even. I pour a small amount into the glass. The amber catches the overhead light and glows, as if it wants credit for being beautiful.
I tell myself it is just to take the edge off. To quiet the noise. To keep the memories from lining up and demanding explanations.
I take a sip.
Warmth spreads through my chest and loosens something just enough to make the room feel less hostile. I do not chase it. I set the glass down beside the laptop.
I do not move it out of reach either.
I keep writing.
The story does not wander anymore. It cuts. It knows when to stop. It knows when to leave something unsaid. I recognize the voice on the page and I do not fully trust it.
It sounds like me.
Only older. Less forgiving.
Halfway through a paragraph, my phone vibrates against the table.
I glance at it, already annoyed.
An email notification.
I almost ignore it. Instead, I open it and feel my chest tighten.
A literary agent. One I sent a query to weeks ago. I barely remember doing it. That was another version of me. Someone who still thought hope required effort.
The subject line is short.
Interested. Full manuscript?
I stare at the screen longer than necessary. There is no rush of excitement. No disbelief. Just a quiet awareness that something has reached me whether I am ready or not.
I look back at the document open in front of me. The story feels finished in a way I have been avoiding admitting.
This is a problem, the thought arrives fully formed and calm.
I acknowledge it.
Then I take another sip.
Not enough to disappear. Just enough to blur the place where Lena used to stand so clearly. Just enough to keep the night from asking too much of me.
I attach the file.
I type a reply that is polite, concise, unembellished.
I hesitate for exactly three seconds.
Then I hit send.
The email leaves. There is no ceremony. No sense of triumph. Just the quiet certainty that I cannot take it back.
The cursor resumes blinking.
The bottle stays close.
I write for another hour. When I finally stop, my glass is empty and I cannot remember when I finished it. That realization bothers me more than the drinking itself.
I save the document. I shut the laptop.
The apartment feels smaller without the glow of the screen. I stand and walk to the window, pressing one hand against the cool glass.
Brooklyn stretches out beneath me. Windows stacked on windows. Lives layered on top of each other. Somewhere, someone is falling in love. Someone is burning dinner. Someone is apologizing badly. Someone is making a promise they will not keep.
None of them know me.
That used to bother me.
Tonight, it does not.
I think about everything I did not get.
I did not win. There was no moment where the story bent back in my favor. No last-minute reversal that proved love was enough if you endured long enough. I did not get closure wrapped in honesty or regret or confession.
Lena did not choose me.
The world did not pause.
And yet, I am still here.
Breathing. Working. Standing in a kitchen that did not exist for me a week ago. I did not collapse under it. I did not chase what was already gone. I learned how to function inside the absence.
That counts for something.
My phone vibrates again.
This time it is a text from Josh, sent from the other room.
You still up?
I type back after a moment.
Yeah. Just writing.
There is a pause.
Then: You good?
I look at the bottle on the table. The empty glass. The city outside that keeps glowing whether I acknowledge it or not.
Yeah, I type. I think so.
It is not a lie. It is not the truth either.
I rest my forehead against the glass and feel the city's resistance. Solid. Unmoved. Alive.
This is not a love story anymore.
It is a life story.
Love did not disappear. It lost its direction. It learned how to live behind me, like a shadow that knows where it belongs.
I step back from the window. I rinse the glass and leave the bottle where it is. Close enough to reach. Far enough to pretend it was a choice.
Life did not wait for me.
So I finally stopped waiting for it.
And somewhere between the sent email and the quiet room, I understand something I am not ready to say out loud yet.
Some demons do not break in.
They sit patiently, watching what you build, and wait for you to decide how much you are willing to trade to keep standing.