The text arrived at the exact moment my apartment felt like it belonged to me.
Tuesday nights were my small ritual. Nothing sacred, nothing dramatic. Just the end of a workday and the beginning of an evening that didn’t ask anything from me. I’d kicked off my shoes by the door, pulled my hair into a loose knot, and tied on an old apron that still had a faint paint stain from a renovation project years ago. I had music on low, something soft and familiar, and the kitchen light was warm enough to make the white counters look almost golden.
A pot of sauce simmered on the stove, tomato and garlic and onions reduced into something slow and comforting. I’d just torn fresh basil between my fingers and dropped it in, and the smell rose immediately, bright and green, like a clean breath.
Then my phone buzzed on the counter.
It wasn’t a loud sound, but it was sharp. A vibration that felt like it traveled up through the air and into my ribs. I glanced down without thinking, expecting something normal. A link from my mother about an article she wanted me to read. A photo Brandon sent of his kid making a weird face. Or one of my mother’s updates that always sounded like news but somehow turned into criticism by the second sentence.
The message opened in a single line.
Don’t call or come over. We’re done.
Seven words.
No greeting. No context. No explanation. No signature.
Just a clean, cruel line.
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