"Mr. Reyes?" a polite woman said on the line. "This is Rita from SunView Bank. We just wanted to confirm a recent deposit into your account."
I blinked. "Deposit?"
"Yes. A direct transfer—quite a sizable one. From a June Cartwright. There's a note attached: 'Studio investment repayment.'"
I dropped the spoon. She gave me the amount. It wasexactlywhat I'd put into her dance studio. Down to the penny.
I couldn't breathe. She didn't know about the debt. She didn't know how badly I needed that money. She just... gave it back.
Not out of spite.
Out of closure. Because she wasdone.
I stared at the wall for an hour, maybe two. The money was probably from her savings. Maybe even what we were putting toward the wedding. She'd washed me out of her life so cleanly it broke something in me.
I went back to my apartment, and I let it swallow me.
There was no dramatic collapse. No music swelling in the background.
Just silence.
And the weight of what I'd done.
It finally felt real. Final. Over.
The couch became my grave. I stopped counting the days. Maybe three. Maybe five. Maybe twenty. I told them I'd work from home—easy enough for an accountant. But I barely worked. I stared at spreadsheets and forgot the numbers halfway through. My fingers hovered over the keyboard but never moved with meaning.
Emails piled up. I stopped replying.
I didn't eat much. Didn't sleep right. The bed felt too big and too cold.
Her scent was fading, but I still curled up on her side, like some part of her might find me again if I waited long enough.
I was unraveling. Not in a loud, cinematic way. But quietly. Like a thread pulled from the hem of a shirt until nothing fit anymore.
Grief isn't linear—it loops, it stabs, it whispers. It tells you lies that feel more like truths. That you're worthless. That you deserved to lose her. That someone like June was never meant to stay in a life as fractured as mine.
Until one night, I heard a knock. Not the kind that waits. The kind that insists. Two sharp raps, followed by a voice that didn't belong in my hallway.
"Aaron! Open this damn door before I break it down!"
I dragged myself off the couch and opened it.
My mother and behind her Grandma, arms crossed, looking like she'd just climbed out of a storm and was ready to start another.
"What the hell are you doing?" Mom snapped as she stormed in, coat still on, fury written across her face like war paint.
"I—" I started.
"No. No excuses. None." She shoved past the boxes, past the mess I'd become. "You're not just losing her, Aaron. You're losing yourself."
Grandma came in next, slower, but her words were sharper than any slap. "Get up and go to your woman, it has been over four months for God's sake!."
"She's not my woman anymore," I said, barely able to get the words out without breaking. "I didn't want to hurt her again. I thought if I gave her space... maybe she'd heal."
Mom turned on me with fire in her eyes. "She thinks you're still with that other woman. You're not giving her space. You're giving her doubt."
"I am afraid," I said, voice cracking. "Afraid if I showed up, she'd slam the door in my face."
