It wasn't that I didn't want to start over. I just wasn't in a rush.
I had to let the scar heal first.
Clay texted again yesterday. A long message. I deleted it before I finished reading.
He asked if we could meet one more time. Said he was sorry.
There was nothing to be sorry for.
I was the one who spent five years before I finally saw him for what he was.
Oh, right. I forgot to mention.
The blood on the operating table that day. There was a lot of it. The doctor said if I'd come in half an hour later, it could have been life-threatening.
Clay didn't know any of that.
He didn't need to.
The day I moved into the new apartment, I threw away that strand of hair.
It had been tucked inside my journal for almost six months. By the time I pulled it out, it had turned yellow.
I held it up to the light by the window, then opened my fingers and watched it drift into the trash can.
Like closing a chapter for good.
The new place was small, barely four hundred square feet, but the windows faced south.
In the afternoon, sunlight poured in and pooled on the floor. I stood there watching that patch of light for a long time.
My phone rang.
Mom.
"Lydia, honey, Chloe Chavez's daughter told me you moved?"
"Yeah."