Page 64 of Orc'd At A Wedding
Bliss has not called. She has not texted. This is confirmation that I made the correct tactical decision. She is already moving on, returning to her life, forgetting the temporary disruption I represented.
This is the optimal outcome.
I repeat this to myself at regular intervals.
By the time I reach the city limits, I have said it sixteen times, and it still does not feel true.
My apartment ison the fourth floor of a converted industrial building in a neighborhood that politely refers to itself as "emerging" and less politely gets referred to as "the area where you don't walk alone after dark."
I prefer it.
The rent is reasonable. The neighbors do not ask questions. The building's security is functionally nonexistent, which means I installed my own and no one complains about the reinforced door or the cameras.
I park in the underground garage, grab my suitcase, and take the stairs.
The apartment is exactly as I left it.
Spotless. Organized. Empty.
I set the suitcase down in the entryway and stand there, my hands hanging uselessly at my sides, staring at the space I have lived in for three years.
It has never bothered me before.
I have always appreciated the clean lines, the lack of clutter, the way everything has a designated place and purpose. My furniture is functional. My kitchen contains exactly twelve items. My bedroom holds a bed, a dresser, and a single lamp.
I walk into the living room and sit down on the couch.
It is too small.
I have never noticed this before, but now it is glaringly obvious. The cushions compress under my weight in a way that feels insubstantial and temporary, and when I lean back, my shoulders extend past the edges of the frame.
The hotel bed was larger.
The hotel bed was large enough for Bliss to sprawl across my chest, her hair spilling over my shoulder, her breathing slow and even and utterly trusting.
I stand up.
I cannot sit on this couch.
I walk to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. It contains protein supplements, meal-prepped chicken and vegetables in identical containers, and a half-empty carton of milk.
I push the door shut on the refrigerator.
I am not hungry.
I walk to the bedroom, intending to unpack my suitcase and return my belongings to their proper locations, but when I open the closet, I stop.
My suits hang in a neat row, organized by color.
I wore the dark gray three-piece to the wedding.
Bliss said I looked like a high-end bodyguard. She said it while smiling, her eyes tracking the way the fabric pulled across my shoulders, and I felt a specific, visceral satisfaction at being visually assessed and approved by her.
I push the closet door shut.
I leave the suitcase on the floor, still packed, and I walk back to the living room.
I sit on the too-small couch.
