Chapter 7 - Twenty-Two Zero Four
The elevator ride to the twenty-second floor felt agonizingly slow, the digital floor numbers ticking upward like a countdown to an explosion. Maya clutched Zoe’s denim jacket tighter around her shoulders, the white silk of the wedding dress rustling against the metal walls of the car. When the doors slid open with a soft chime, the quiet of the residential hallway was absolute.
Unit 2204 was at the very end of the corridor. As promised, the brass key protruded from the deadbolt, catching the harsh fluorescent light of the ceiling fixture.
Maya stepped forward, her hand shaking as she reached out and turned the key. The lock clicked open with a heavy, final sound. She pushed the door open and stepped inside, Zoe right behind her.
The apartment was unrecognizable.
It wasn't messy, nor was it trashed in a fit of rage. It was completely, terrifyingly sterile. All of Isaiah’s framed architectural sketches were gone from the walls, leaving pale, rectangular outlines on the grey paint where the sun hadn't faded the pigment. The bookshelves were empty. The kitchen counter, usually cluttered with a French press and mail, was wiped down to bare granite.
"My god," Zoe whispered, wandering into the deserted living room. "He didn't just leave. He erased himself."
Maya walked slowly toward the kitchen, her heels clicking loudly against the hardwood floor. On the center island sat a single, neatly folded sheet of heavy cardstock paper. No envelope. Just her name written in that clean, precise architect’s hand: Maya.
She picked it up, her hands trembling so violently she could barely hold the paper steady. She unfolded it and began to read silently in her head, but the words felt like physical blows against her ribs.
Maya,
If you are reading this, it means you didn't run to Corey, but you also didn't find the courage to stay with me for the right reasons. You came here looking for safety. But safety was never a place, and it was never a person. It was a choice you refused to make.
I’ve moved my things into storage. The venue is cancelled; I called them before I left. Tell your parents I’m sorry for the inconvenience.
Goodbye, Maya.
May you like
Maya let the paper flutter from her fingers onto the empty granite counter. Before she could process the finality of the words, her phone buzzed loudly in her pocket, shattering the silence of the empty apartment.
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