Page 4 of The Proposal Pact
“Yes, why do you keep phrasing everything as a question?”
“Um, maybe because we broke up a month ago?”
I blink, straightening up. “What? When? How? A month ago?” Surely, I’d remember breaking up with my boyfriend.
Craig sighs, and a humorless laugh leaves him. “Yeah, Soph. A month, but I’m not surprised you haven’t noticed.I’m sorry you had a crap day, and I wish I could help but I’m going on a date tonight with someone who’s actually interested in me instead of being their afterthought.” Craig sighs again when I just remain silent. “I told you this when we were breaking up, but clearly you don’t remember, so here it is again. I don’t recognize you anymore. Do you recognize yourself?”
Craig hangs up before I can say anything. But really, I have nothing.
I make it home on autopilot, his last words still running on repeat.
I’m a little bit proud of myself. I was one hundred percent sure I’d cry.
Like, dead serious. Because that’s what you do when your life gets flushed down the toilet. When all of those hard-earned diplomas are staring at you, mocking you from the wall. When every single aspect of your life sucks so bad, there is no seeing through all that crap.
Nope, I’m not crying at all. I’m also not really moving, just standing in the middle of my tiny studio apartment, still clutching my bag with all of the million picture frames I took home from my desk.
But hey, I’m not crying.
Standing like a zombie is fine. Totally fine. For about an hour, I simply stared at the way my apartment looks in the daylight. When was the last time I’ve seen it without the lamp light? I feel my feet aching through this almost catatonic state and notice I haven’t even taken off my heels.
I slip out of them, kicking them to the side as my fingers pull the zipper of my skirt down, not realizing I’ve started to undressed until I see the black fabric pooling at my feet, leaving me standing in my simple black thong and white blouse that is halfway unbuttoned already.
My eyes lift up to the sunlight again and then back to the black skirt and a feeling of utter contempt washes over me. Freaking black pencil skirt… How did I get here? My best friend, Grace, would be appalled.
Not that she has any room to judge when she was wearing similar clothes not too long ago while stuck in an abusive relationship withan egotistical bastard, but at least she got up and turned her life around. No more black pencil skirts for her…while I’m over here, still stuck in those black pencil skirts zone.
There were days when you wouldn’t catch us dead in boring clothes. There’s nothing wrong with boring clothes…it was just never us. There were days—when she still lived in New York and before she met the above-mentioned bastard—when we had lived our life to the fullest.
In color. And full of magic. Despite both being in school and living off scraps…we had magic.
Looking up from the skirt, I take in my tiny apartment. The dull, naked walls that hold no pictures or art. The simple, full bed from Ikea and the white nightstand next to it. The one that has dust piled on top of it.
When was the last time I had the time to take care of my place?
I remember buying these simple pieces because it was convenient, and I thought they’d do for now, until I found something better.
But I never did, because I never looked.
My eyes fall on the one piece that I bothered to hang up in my house. The signed hockey stick I was gifted because I was obsessed with the sport ever since Dad turned it on for the first time to fill in the silence in the house while Mom made dinner, only to find me glued to the screen.
I suck in a sharp breath. When was the last time I actually watched the whole game and not the highlights the next morning while on the subway?
My eyes widen when I realize it’s not just hockey I’ve been watching through highlights.
I didn’t even notice how my life became so monotone. So boring and convenient.
I look back down to the pooling skirt and step over it, striding to my closet in three purposeful steps, tearing the flimsy doors open. One by one, I rip the clothes off the hangers. Black slacks, gray slacks, beige slacks, navy slacks, another black skirt, gray skirt, beige skirt, navy skirt. I keep throwing them all over the floor, over my head, tothe side, not giving a flying fuck about where they land, because I’m fucking done!
I’m done with this.
I’m done with living a life I never wanted…
My whole body freezes, my hand stopping mid-air above another white blouse.
I never wanted this life.
I never wanted this life.
