Chapter 1 – My Room Mate from the Pack

Maggie

The couch was white. Not cream, not off-white. No, it was stark white, like the teeth of an overachiever or a bridal showroom. It was the kind of couch you only bought if you never planned to eat on it. I perched on the edge of it, afraid I might stain it if I let myself sink all the way in. The cold of the leather seeped through my jeans, as if it resented me for sitting on it.

Eric was wearing matching loungewear. Beige joggers. A beige hoodie. He looked like a man-shaped oat milk latte.

He stood in front of the fireplace that wasn’t even a real fireplace, just a recessed rectangle with a flickering screen that simulated flames. The wall around it was exposed brick, which I’d once found charming but now thought it just looked like a Pinterest board with commitment issues.

“I think,” Eric began, calm and measured like he was reading guided meditation instructions, “we’ve outgrown our emotional ecosystem.”

I stared at him, my lips pressed firmly together. I couldn’t bring myself to open my mouth. If I did, I’d either start sobbing or scream, and neither felt worth the energy.

Eric exhaled through his nose, like he was trying to show patience. “You don’t have anything to say?”

My gaze drifted to the fake flames flickering in the fireplace. “I guess I’m trying to figure out what that means,” I said, my voice thinner than I wanted. “Emotional ecosystem? Is that, like, a breakup term you heard on a podcast?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “Mags. I’m not trying to make this harder. I’m trying to be honest.”

Honest. Like honesty was some kind of mercy, and he hadn’t been pulling away in tiny, silent ways for months now.

“I need a softer energy in my space,” he added.

I laughed, but it came out wrong-sharp and bitter. “Softer energy? Are you serious?”

His brows lifted, like I’d just proved his point. “This is exactly what I mean. Lately, everything with you is all tension and conflict. I’m exhausted, Maggie. Aren’t you?”

No, I wasn’t. I was heartbroken. There was a difference.

I stared at the pale suede stitching on the throw pillow and thought of all the ways I’d reshaped myself for him, for this relationship. I’d tried being softer. I’d tried being smaller. I had bent myself into the shape of his ideal woman until I forgot what I actually looked like. I had shaved the edges off my personality and filed my voice down to something gentle and agreeable, just so I wouldn’t take up too much room. And now he needed something softer?

I couldn’t win a game where the rules changed every time I got close.

Eric shifted his weight and crossed his arms. “You don’t have to look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m the villain.”

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, willing myself not to cry. “You think because you said it gently, it doesn’t make you the bad guy?”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. I could see him weighing his words. Always careful. Always calculated. “This isn’t working anymore. I think we both know it.”

I didn’t answer. What was there to say? That I loved him anyway? That I didn’t want to start over? That I didn’t want to leave this apartment, this life, this version of us that I’d clung to as if it could still be saved?

Still, I didn’t cry. I stood.

“Are you?-?”

“I’ll have my stuff out within the next few days,” I said, brushing invisible lint off my jeans. My voice sounded strange. Flat.

“Maggie-“

But I was already walking toward the bedroom. The cold in the hallway crept under my skin and stayed there.

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for just a second, trying to calm the thudding of my heart.

The room looked the same as always, perfectly curated like a catalog photo. I crossed to the dresser, trailing my fingers along its surface like I was seeing it for the first time. I picked up a framed photo from last summer during a Fourth of July picnic at the lake. We were barefoot on the grass, my head resting on Eric’s shoulder, fireworks blooming behind us in the dusk. I remembered thinking that we were finally happy that night.

I hated that photo. I hated how much I had meant that smile.

I set the frame face-down with a little more force than necessary.

Behind me, I heard the soft creak of the floorboards as Eric moved around the apartment. A drawer opened, followed by the faint clink of glass. He was settling in for the night, like this was done for him now.

I sat on the bed and stared at my hands. They looked small. Useless. I rubbed my palms over my thighs, trying to shake the feeling. I wasn’t going to fall apart. Not now. Not in this room.

I grabbed my phone off the nightstand. With trembling fingers, I typed out a message to my sister, Charlotte:

I need you. Then I deleted it. Typed:

Drinks tonight? Deleted that too. Finally settled on:

You free?

I didn’t want to be a mess. I didn’t want to need saving.

I looked around the room-our room. The neutral walls, the throw pillows I’d chosen to match the bedding, the curtains I’d convinced Eric we needed.

I realized I didn’t want any of it anymore.

I grabbed my purse and coat, but paused at the door. For a second, I thought about stepping out, getting air, calling my sister-doing anything but staying in this space that suddenly felt too small and too big at the same time. And then I considered finding Eric, trying to explain myself. Asking him to fight for us.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I turned toward the closet. My legs felt heavy, like I was moving through mud, but I kept going. I slid the door open, the familiar creak of it weirdly comforting in the silence. The suitcase was right where I’d left it after the last time we traveled, when things still felt good, or at least fixable.

I dragged it out, the wheels thudding against the floor. The sound felt final in a way Eric’s words hadn’t.

Unzipping the suitcase, I started pulling clothes from hangers. Sweaters I’d worn on lazy Sundays; dresses I’d bought for dates he kept rescheduling; the jacket I wore the night we moved in here. My hands moved on autopilot, and my mind was a mess of static.

I didn’t want to cry. I told myself I wouldn’t. But as I reached for the shirt with the little sunflowers that he’d once said was his favorite, a single tear slipped free and tracked down my cheek. I swiped it away with the back of my hand and kept going.

If Eric needed softer energy, I’d give him empty space.

The apartment looked different now that I was packing it into boxes. Less curated. Less aspirational. Half of it didn’t even feel like mine. I stared into the fridge. All the kombucha was his. All the frozen fruit? His. Even the damn eggs were organic and came with a motivational quote on the carton.

I muttered under my breath as I hauled a box of books down the hallway. I’d given up space on the shelves, in the fridge, in the bed… and I still hadn’t made the cut. The tears stayed tucked somewhere behind my eyes, not ready to come out yet. Maybe they were scared of staining his goddamn white couch.

Eric watched me from the doorway. “You’re being kind of quiet.”

“Just giving you that softer energy you wanted.”

He winced. “You know, I’m not sure I ever really knew you.”

I stacked another box on top of the first one. “That makes two of us. But hey, I’m sure you know your yoga instructor pretty well.”

His lips parted in protest, but I didn’t stick around to hear his carefully worded denial. I carried the boxes out to my car, muttering goodbyes to every piece of furniture I hated on principle. When I passed the yoga mat leaning in the corner, I saluted it. “Thanks for your service, namaste, and please rot in hell.”

Twenty minutes later, I was at my sister’s townhouse, just far enough outside San Francisco that the fog thinned, and the houses actually had yards. Charlotte opened her door before I even knocked. She looked like safety. Like home.

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