Page 142 of Trouble from Abroad
Maybe it’s instinct, maybe it’s shock, maybe it’s self-preservation. Because if I move, I might shatter.
I stand there, bag heavy in my hand, bread tilting out, the doorbell chiming as people come and go.
He promised me forever, and I’m standing alone in a deli, wondering if it expired already.
My throat burns. My vision blurs.
He ran after her.
I let the bag slip from my hand, murmur a thank-you to the kind old man behind the counter, and step out into the cold.
The wind slices through my open coat. I keep my eyes on the sidewalk because everything else hurts to look at. The world outside is too alive for what’s happening inside me. My fingers go numb around the keys in my pocket.
He ran after her.
Lily’s laugh from when she wins at Go Fish rings in my ears. I brace myself on someone's fence.
The words loop in my head, steady as a heartbeat,round and round. I try to unhear them, but they just keep echoing, feeding off my disbelief. Every “trust me” he’s ever said starts rewinding, unraveling.
He left me behind, without a word.And ran after her.
I walk, unsure of where my legs are taking me. Toward survival and surrender. Somewhere safe—if that even exists anymore.
When I finally reach the house, my hands are trembling so hard I almost drop the keys. His keys. I open the door and step into the quiet. The picture Lily drew of the three of us laughs at my naïveté.
I’m packing it anyway. She made that for me.
My chest caves entirely.
I should wait. Ask. Breathe. But the part of me that still believed people stay—the part that waited too many times for explanations that never came—lost its pulse. I convince myself to call him. Shaky fingers press the green button but it rings until it goes to voicemail.
Pragmatic, survival-mode Mia takes the wheel and she works on autopilot. So I pack. The things that are mine, or half mine. The dress I wore the night he told me he couldn’t imagine life without me. The book he gave me with his note tucked between the pages—Read this when I can’t wake up next to you.
My hands shake harder.
This isn’t me overreacting. This is muscle memory. My body remembering what it means to be left behind.
Every empty drawer I close sounds final. The suitcase zipper answers with a low, merciless rasp.
I crumple onto the bed, and the first sob hits sharp enough to hurt. After that, I can’t stop. I pressmy face into his pillow, and it smells like everything I thought I’d finally earned.
It’s hard to breathe. I want to scream. Laugh hysterically. I want to be cold and not care. I want to be the kind of woman who can make a joke, call Callie and say, “You won’t believe the shit that just happened.”
But I can’t. I’m not that woman.
It mattered. He mattered. I was a fool to think the universe would ever let something good stay. And I had settled with that truth—until he came around, surpassing book boyfriends, dangling promises I never dared want out loud.
The door opens downstairs.
I freeze.
“Mia?”
He’s breathless, sounding raw, his worry filling the hall.
Even my name sounds broken from his lips.
I press my palms to my eyes, trying to erase the tears, but they won’t stop coming.
