Chapter 4: Breaking Free

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3

I returned to my rental apartment.

It was just off a busy street in Astoria—close enough to the subway, quiet after 8pm. A thousand square feet—not big, not small—arranged by me to be warm and cozy.

There was a thrift-store velvet couch, a battered coffee table covered in old coffee rings, and string lights along the window. My safe place. Or so I’d thought.

On the old walls were photos arranged in the shape of a heart.

The photos were faded at the edges, curling up from the tape. Most people would call it quirky, but for me, it was home—at least, until today.

Pictures of me and Derek together.

There we were at Coney Island, at a friend’s barbecue, blurry selfies after midnight runs to Dunkin’ Donuts. All smiles on the surface.

But every photo was secretly snapped by me and developed elsewhere. He never agreed to take a picture with me.

Sometimes I’d set up the camera on a timer, pretending it was an accident. Other times, I’d catch his reflection in a window, hoping for just one candid moment. But he never let himself be seen with me—never posted, never tagged.

He never posted about us, and always went cold or disappeared around anniversaries.

Every Valentine’s Day, he’d claim work emergencies. Birthdays went ignored. Our relationship lived in the shadows—mine, not his.

All these years, I paid the rent and utilities. Eating out, shopping, going out—most of the expenses were covered by me.

I scrolled through my banking app one last time, marveling at how I’d let myself bankroll his dreams. The reality stung, but I felt strangely free.

I immediately braved the penalty fee and told the landlord I wanted to break the lease.

The landlord, Mrs. Hernandez, looked at me with pity. "You sure, honey?" she asked. "Place’ll be snapped up by the end of the week." I nodded. She handed over the paperwork, no questions asked.

I threw out what needed to be thrown out and packed up as fast as I could.

I filled a dozen trash bags, tossing everything that reminded me of Derek. The neighbors probably wondered what apocalypse I was preparing for.

As I was busy packing, someone knocked on the door.

The knock was loud, impatient. I wiped my hands on my jeans, bracing myself for round two.

I opened it to find Derek and Rachel standing there.

Derek wore his leather jacket like armor; Rachel clutched her phone, mascara smudged from fake tears. They both looked ready for a showdown.

"Natalie, are you moving?"

Rachel’s voice was syrupy sweet, eyes wide with manufactured concern. She peeked over my shoulder, probably checking for anything left worth stealing.

Rachel came in and hypocritically grabbed my hand. I coldly pulled away.

Her grip was cold and clammy. I yanked my hand back, refusing to play her game.

Derek looked at me, his face full of disdain.

His lip curled in that way it always did when he thought he had the upper hand.

"Moving? As far as I know, her dad died of illness years ago. Everything she earned from writing went to pay off her dad’s old medical debts."

He looked straight at Rachel, as if reciting her talking points for the cameras. His voice carried through the hallway.

"This place costs two grand a month and she’s already feeling the pinch. If she’s moving, it’ll be to some shabby little dorm room."

His words were meant to humiliate, to cement the narrative that I was desperate and alone. A neighbor poked her head out, then quickly disappeared.

I looked at him without expression. "What do you want?"

My tone was flat, tired. I refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.

Derek spoke with open contempt: "Apologize to Rachel. Admit you plagiarized, publicly."

He said it as if it were a favor, as if absolution were just a tweet away. The nerve of this guy.