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I read the note twice before folding it. It feels too small for what I’m doing. A single sheet of paper can’t possibly hold twenty-three years of love, expectation, gratitude, resentment, fear, and guilt. It’ll have to.

After folding the paper, I place the engagement ring on top of it, then turn off my phone.

The silence is immediate. For the first time in as long as I can remember, no one will be able to reach me. The thought is equal parts thrilling and terrifying.

Downstairs, the house is quiet, every room arranged with the kind of effortless perfection that requires several people to maintain. Fresh flowers sit on the entry table, and the floors gleam. Framed photographs line the hallway, each one capturing another milestone.

My first day of school.

A dance recital.

High school graduation.

Columbia.

Graham and me at his parents’ anniversary party.

Hundreds of photographs document who I’ve been. But none of them reflects who I am.

Breakfast waits beneath a glass cover on the kitchen island. Egg whites, fruit, and a protein shake chalky enough that I already know I won’t finish it.

I grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator and toss it in my bag. Then I stand in the kitchen and listen.

The refrigerator hums.

A clock ticks above the stove.

Somewhere outside, a truck rumbles past.

This has been my home for most of my life, but I’ve never felt like I belonged here.

“Goodbye,” I whisper.

I leave through the front door. Not the side entrance or the service door.

The front.

My suitcase bumps down each step behind me as I make my way to the curb where the rideshare is already waiting for me. The driver hops out.

"Ashbourne?" he asks before lifting my suitcase into the trunk and then opening the back door.

"That's me."

"Quite the drive."

"I don't mind,” I say as I slide into the backseat.

He nods, climbs back behind the wheel, and pulls away from the curb.

My eyes stay locked on the brownstone. Nothing dramatic happens. Mom doesn’t appear on the steps begging me to stay. Dad doesn’t call my name. The house simply grows smaller in the rear window until another building slips between us, and it’s gone.

Outside my window, a woman walks past with a stroller. A delivery driver carries boxes toward the building next door. The city continues around me, completely unaware that my entire life has just cracked open.

I keep waiting for panic. For my chest to tighten. To decide that I've made the biggest mistake of my life. Instead, with every mile between Brooklyn and me, something inside me slowly begins to unclench.

The city gives way to highways, then rolling hills, then stretches of green that seem to go on forever. I rest my forehead against the cool window and watch the world blur past.