Dragging my exhausted body back to the apartment I had shared with Caleb for seven long years, I paused at the doorway, staring at the place that had once felt like a sanctuary. The sleek marble floors, the floor-to-ceiling windows, the custom-designed furniture—everything had once seemed perfect. Now, it all felt like a cruel, mocking joke.
Back then, I had been so certain I would spend my life here, surrounded by him, wrapped in the illusion of his love. That certainty now felt like a lie I had willingly believed, a fairy tale that had turned to ash in my hands. Every corner of the apartment whispered memories of us—small moments that should have comforted me, but instead cut me open like shards of glass.
The pain was sharper because deep down, I had always known: this home had never truly been mine. Caleb had designed it with someone else in mind, a projection of the person he thought I should be, not the woman I actually was. I had never been enough—not for him, not for the life he imagined. Staying here any longer would only be a slow act of self-inflicted punishment.
It was time to leave.