Chapter 3
The afternoon sun shifted, casting long, geometric shadows across the living room rug. Maya stood up slowly, her legs feeling stiff and heavy after hours of curling into herself on the couch. Liam watched her quietly, giving her space without retreating. In the corner of the room sat three large cardboard boxes, sealed with packing tape and marked with bold black ink: BRAD. They had sat there for a week, an untouched monument to a life abruptly terminated, waiting for a courier service that Brad kept postponing because he was too busy packing for the tropics.
“I can’t look at those anymore,” Maya said, pointing a finger toward the cardboard monoliths. They dominated the aesthetic of the room just as Brad’s opinions had dominated their relationship. Every time she walked to the kitchen, she had to navigate around them. Every time she sat on the couch, her peripheral vision caught the stark white tape.
Liam stood up, stretching his tall frame. At thirty-five, with his wavy dark hair slightly tousled and his white t-shirt clinging comfortably to his shoulders, he possessed a grounded presence that grounded Maya’s scattered panic. “Then let’s get them out of here,” he said simply.
“Today? Right now?” Maya’s eyes widened slightly.
“Why not? Are you saving them for a special occasion?” Liam asked, a dry hint of humor touching the corners of his mouth. “Every hour those boxes sit in your living room, Brad is taking up rent in your head. Let’s load them into the trunk of my car and drop them off at his mother’s house. She lives across town. She can deal with sorting through his designer hoodies and collection of vintage vinyl.”
Maya hesitated, her hand drifting to her hair. The idea of action—of actual physical movement that wasn’t crying or scrolling through social media—felt revolutionary and terrifying. It meant crossing a point of no return. As long as the boxes were here, there was a tiny, irrational part of her brain whispering that this was all a terrible misunderstanding, that Brad would walk through the door, apologize, and ask for his clothes back.
“His mom hates me,” Maya muttered, though she was already walking toward the nearest box.
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“His mom hates everyone who isn’t Brad,” Liam corrected gently, stepping over to take the heaviest box by its side handles. “Which is why she’ll take immense pleasure in yelling at him for leaving his crap at your place. It’s a win-win.”
A genuine, albeit small, smile touched Maya’s lips for the first time in weeks. It felt foreign on her face, stretching muscles that had grown stiff from grief, but it felt good. She gripped the second box, finding its weight surprisingly manageable once she braced her core. Together, they carried the physical remnants of her past relationship out the front door and down the hallway, leaving the apartment feeling lighter with every step they took toward the elevator.
