Page 171 of A Solid Guide to Surviving a Situationship

Transferrable skills.

I stared at those phrases like they belonged to another species. Because for twelve years, my skill had simply been enduring calls, fixing customer problems, sounding calm when people screamed at me.

And suddenly, I realized something terrifying: I didn’t know how to become anything else.

The job market was also at its worst.

This realization hollowed me out.

Because when you spend over a decade surviving inside the same cycle, you start believing it means something.

But sitting there in front of rejection emails and unanswered applications, I started wondering if I had wasted my entire adult life building experience that only mattered inside fluorescent rooms with headset and metrics and blocked-out windows.

The fear of staying stuck wrapped itself around my throat.

What if this was all I was ever going to be?

What if there was really nothing special about me outside loving too hard and surviving just enough?

So by the end of July, I barely recognized myself anymore.

I had lost weight.

My eyes looked tired.

Even my apartment felt unfamiliar, like I had become a ghost living inside it.

And Southside? It became unbearable.

Every café reminded me of him.

Every street corner carried some version of us.

Every building held memories I couldn’t turn off.

I couldn’t buy coffee without remembering him leaning against a counter waiting for me. Couldn’t pass a crosswalk without remembering his hand briefly touching my back. Couldn’t exist in the city without feeling haunted.

And then one night, after staring at the ceiling until nearly dawn, I realized something.

I couldn’t survive Southside anymore.

Not like this.

So I left.

I just packed my bag, booked a flight, and disappeared.

I didn’t even fully know where I was going until I got there.

Ormoc.

A city where nobody knew me.

Nobody knew Victor.

Nobody knew the version of me that fell apart.

And honestly, I wasn’t even searching for healing anymore.