It didn’t magically fix everything.
It didn’t make me want to keep living with her.
But I believed she finally understood what she’d actually done.
Kayla moved out the following day.
Mara and I helped carry a few boxes downstairs.
There was no dramatic goodbye, no screaming, and no promise that we’d all become best friends again.
Before Kayla got into the car, she looked at me.
“I really am sorry.”
“I know.”
Then, she left.
A week later, I worked another late shift.
I got home at exactly 11:40 P.M.
I dropped my keys on the counter, took off my shoes, and opened the refrigerator.
My meal-prep containers were on my shelf.
All five of them.
For months, I’d gotten into the habit of counting before I even took off my coat.
Five on Sunday.
Two by Wednesday.
Four missing in one day.
$47 gone from a $110 grocery shop.
I had counted everything because somebody had convinced me I couldn’t trust myself.
That night, I didn’t count.
I took one container from the shelf, heated my dinner, and sat down to eat.
For the first time in weeks, being hungry at the end of a long shift was just that.
