The house finally goes quiet around ten.
Dad turns in early. Josh disappears into the spare room with his laptop and headphones, the soft clack of keys seeping through the wall like a steady pulse. I sit alone in the living room, lights off, TV untouched, listening to the house settle into itself.
It feels wrong to call this night normal.
Eventually, I end up in my childhood bedroom. I sit on the edge of the bed with my phone in my hand, scrolling without really seeing anything. My thoughts keep circling the same places. Josh's voice earlier. Dad's silence. The empty space where Grandma should be. The chair she always claimed at the dining table, her teacup still tucked into the corner of the sink like she might come back for it.
Out of habit more than intention, I open my email.
I am not expecting anything.
There are a few unread newsletters. A bill reminder. Spam pretending to care about my future. I almost close the app when a subject line stops me.
Hey, thought of you. Opportunity in Brooklyn.
My chest tightens just enough to make me sit up straighter.
It is from a friend with whom I attended my first year of college years ago, while I was still in Willowbrook. We stayed in touch in the lazy way people do. Occasional check-ins. Shared complaints about the writing industry and education system. Nothing serious.
I open it.
He keeps it simple. A small independent publishing house in Brooklyn needs an assistant editor. Mostly grunt work. Reading submissions. Proofing. Helping senior editors stay organized. Not glamorous. Not prestigious.
Real.
"I thought of you because you're good," he writes. "And because you actually care about stories. Let me know if you're interested. No pressure."
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
I do not feel excited. Not exactly. What I feel is recognition. Like a paragraph finally settling into the right place on a page after being misaligned for too long.
I know immediately that I am going to say yes.
The certainty surprises me. There is no debate, no careful list of pros and cons. Just a quiet understanding that this is the next step, whether I feel ready for it or not.
Relief comes first. Sharp and almost embarrassing in its intensity.
Then guilt follows close behind.
I picture Willowbrook in the daylight. The house. Dad alone in the kitchen. Grandma's empty chair pulled slightly away from the table, exactly how she left it.
Leaving again.
This time without the lie that I will come back and find everything the same.
I lean back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling.
With Grandma gone, the house feels like it has lost its center of gravity. Everything is still standing, but nothing feels held together anymore. Willowbrook is not home the way it used to be. It is a memory trying to pretend it is a location.
My phone buzzes softly in my hand. I have not replied yet.
Josh's door opens down the hall. His footsteps pause outside my room.
"You up?" he asks.
"Yeah."
He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. His foot taps once against the floor, like he is bracing himself. "You look like someone just told you something important."
I hesitate, then tilt the phone toward him. "Got an email."
He reads the screen, skimming fast. His eyebrows lift slightly.
"Brooklyn," he says. Not a question.
"Yeah."
"That's good."
"I think so."
He nods once. "You're taking it."
"Yes."
Another nod. No surprise. No debate.
After a moment, he says, "I'll come with you."
I look at him. "Josh…"
"I know," he says gently, cutting me off. "You didn't ask. I'm not asking either."
A pause.
"I don't want to stay here," he adds. "And you shouldn't either. Not like this."
Something loosens in my chest.
"Dad"
"We'll figure that out," he says. "We always do."
He straightens, already stepping back down the hall. He glances over his shoulder once before leaving. "Let me know when you reply."
When he is gone, I look back at the email.
I type my response slowly. Thank you. I'm interested. Let's talk.
I hit send.
The room feels the same after. Quiet. Heavy. But the weight has shifted, just slightly.
With Grandma gone, Willowbrook does not have an anchor anymore.
And for the first time since the funeral, I let myself admit it.
Staying would not be loyalty.
It would just be standing still in a place that has already let me go.
⟡ ✧ ⟡
I thought the night was done hurting me, but I was so wrong.
I found out by accident.
That is the worst part.
I am sitting on the edge of the bed, phone still warm in my hand from replying to the Brooklyn email, when a notification slides in. A message in an old group chat I never muted because I never thought I would need to.
Did you hear? Lena's getting married.
I read it once.
Then again.
My brain stalls, like it is buffering. The sentence feels incomplete, like it is missing context, a correction, a punchline that tells me this is a misunderstanding.
I type back before I can stop myself.
What?
Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.
To Samuel. Wedding's soon, apparently. Guess things moved fast.
That sentence sits alone on the screen.
I stare at it until the display dims.
There is no dramatic rush of emotion. No sharp pain. No tears threatening to spill.
Just a sudden pressure in my chest, like someone quietly placed a heavy weight there and walked away. My ears start ringing, faint but persistent, as if the room itself is holding its breath.
Lena.
Getting married.
To Samuel.
I try to picture her in a wedding dress and my mind refuses. It will not let the image form. Her face blurs. The details slide away, as if my thoughts are protecting me from something they know I cannot take all at once.
I didn't move.
I didn't think.
I just sit there, phone loose in my hand, staring at nothing.
Somewhere down the hall, Josh laughs softly at something on his screen. The house creaks. A car passes outside. Life continues with impressive efficiency.
That is when it hits me.
Not that she is marrying someone else.
But that the window has closed.
Not a plan. Not a promise. Just the option. The quiet possibility that one day, somehow, we might find our way back to each other and see what was still there.
I was not holding onto Lena. I was holding onto maybe.
And now even that is gone.
This is not heartbreak the way songs describe it. This is not fresh loss or reopened wounds.
This is the realization that while I was busy surviving, life kept moving forward without checking if I was ready.
Lena did not pause.
She did not look back and wait for me to catch up.
She chose.
And the worst truth settles in quietly, with no one to witness it but me.
This is not the loss of Lena.
It is the loss of the choice to ever find out what we could have been again.
I lock my phone.
The room feels smaller somehow, like the walls have edged closer without asking permission.