Chapter 5: The Weight of Goodbye

I answered and heard Carter yelling, "Rachel."

His voice was sharp, desperate. It pulled me back to reality, just for a moment.

I couldn’t help it—sweet as a kid—"Carter, it’s snowing hard. I want cake."

The words slipped out before I could stop them. It felt like a plea from another lifetime.

Before he could reply, I turned over and fell asleep again.

Sleep pulled me under, warm and heavy. I let myself drift, hoping for dreams where things were simpler.

I slept until midnight, woke up hungry, and went to the kitchen to find something to eat—only to see that Carter had actually come back.

The house was quiet, the hum of the fridge the only sound. Shadows stretched across the floor. I blinked, surprised to see the light on in the kitchen. Carter stood by the counter, a familiar box in his hands.

I already knew he’d bought Lily a big house.

I’d seen the deed, the photos online. It was everything I’d once dreamed of—big windows, a sprawling yard, a kitchen filled with sunlight. But he’d given it to someone else.

They lived there together. Lily cooked for him, made him happy, waited for him to come home.

I imagined her in that kitchen, humming as she stirred a pot of soup, waiting for Carter to walk through the door. It was a life I’d once wanted, now just out of reach.

Carter was doing well. He hadn’t come back in a long time.

His absences grew longer, his excuses thinner. The house felt emptier each time he left.

He leaned casually against the floor-to-ceiling windows, a cigarette between his lips, staring straight at me.

The smoke curled around his head, the city lights reflected in the glass behind him. He looked tired, older than I remembered.

I lowered my eyes and walked past him, but he grabbed my arm and stopped me.

His grip was firm, almost gentle. For a second, I thought he might apologize. But the moment passed.

He frowned and asked gently, "Why have you lost so much weight?"

His voice was soft, almost caring. It caught me off guard.

As if he still loved me.

For a heartbeat, I let myself believe it. But I knew better.

I froze for a second, then shook off his hand hard and snapped, "Carter, what’s wrong with you?"

My voice was sharp, brittle. I didn’t want his pity. Not now.

He looked at his empty palm, his face slowly turning cold.

The warmth vanished, replaced by the familiar mask of indifference. He turned away, retreating into himself.

When I got to the dining table and saw the cake covered in candles, I realized that phone call hadn’t been a dream. The air smelled faintly of vanilla and wax.

The cake was small, white frosting glistening in the candlelight. The candles flickered, casting soft shadows on the walls. My chest tightened.

I said I wanted cake, and Carter bought it.

He’d remembered, even after everything. It was almost enough to make me cry.

What did that mean? Making peace? Was this a peace offering?

Was this his way of apologizing? Or just another attempt to buy forgiveness?

But I’m already dying. I don’t need cake. I don’t need Carter.

The realization settled over me like a blanket—heavy, final. I was done waiting for him to change.

I grabbed the cake and tossed it in the trash. Carter clenched his jaw and pinned me against the wall, frosting smeared across the lid.

The crash was loud, frosting splattering across the tile. Carter’s eyes flashed with anger as he cornered me.

He cursed, "Rachel, are you screwing with me?"

His voice was low, dangerous. I met his gaze, unflinching.

I smiled and admitted, "Carter, yes, I’m messing with you. So what?"