Page 7 of Letting Go

But instead, I open my laptop.

Because if I’m losing everything- my job, my trust, the life I thought I had- I might as well burn the rest of it down on my terms.

And then I’ll decide what rises from the ashes.

Chapter 4

The clatter wakes me.

Not gently, not sweetly. Just... noise. Mug against counter. Cabinet door thunking closed. The unmistakable whirr of the espresso machine trying its best to be helpful and cheery at way-too-early o’clock.

I’m on the couch, curled up like a forgotten throw pillow, laptop still open next to me, my resignation letter half-drafted in the harsh blue light. My neck is doing that awful crick-thing, and my mouth tastes like unresolved trauma and soy sauce.

Then, a coffee mug is hovering in front of me. Smells amazing. Too bad it’s served with a side of betrayal.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” Mike says, all chipper and casual like it’s a Sunday in a life that isn’t cracking at the edges. “You didn’t come to bed.”

I blink at him, not fully human yet. “Yeah,” I mumble, sitting up and running a hand through my wreck of hair. “Must’ve fallen asleep here.”

My voice is croaky, but it passes as normal. He doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

He’s already dressed in charcoal grey slacks that cling a little too well to thighs that’ve clearly never skipped leg day, a navy button-down open at the collar like he’s trying to strike that impossible balance between take-me-seriously-in-a-boardroom and I-can-still-fix-your-sink. His tie’s half-tucked into his shirt like he’s in the middle of something important, always mid-action, never fully present. He’s wearing that camel-coloured wool coat I bought him last Christmas, the one that makes him look taller than he already is, like five-eleven wasn’t quite smug enough.

He’s broad-shouldered, sturdy. Not the gym-rat type, he’s never had abs, not even when we first met, but there’s a solidness to him. The kind of body you trust to carry the groceries and move the couch and lie straight to your face without flinching.

The travel mug is in his hand, guess he’s heading to the office, and not staying to deal with the mess he created.

And the worst part? He still looks good.

Clean-shaven. Hair a little mussed in that deliberate way. The kind of handsome that’s easy to overlook when he’s just home watching sports but impossible to ignore when you’re heartbroken and coffee-deprived and wondering how long he’s been lying to you with that same damn face.

He hesitates, standing there, just long enough to make it weird.

“Are we... okay?” he asks.

I look at him for a beat too long. Not dramatically, just... heavy. Weighted. Like I’m measuring the distance between what I want to say and what would actually be safe to say.

“I don’t know,” I tell him honestly.

He nods once. More of a twitch, really. “We’ll talk tonight.”

“Okay.”

He turns, walks toward the door like a man who thinks the hard part’s over. His briefcase clicks softly against his thigh. He’s almost at the exit when it hits me.

“Mike.”

He stops. Freezes. Then turns around, slowly. His smile is gone. Replaced with something tighter. Warier.

“Yeah?”

“How are you getting to work?” I ask. Voice sweet. Casual. Too casual.

He blinks. Just for a second. “Oh! uh. I called the mechanic,” he says, scratching the back of his neck like he just now remembered this convenient detail. “He came by early while you were still sleeping. Fixed it right here in the driveway.”

Of course he did. Magic mechanic. Invisible. Silent as a ghost.

I nod. “Okay.”

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