She caught me staring through her kitchen window and instead of screaming or calling the cops, she just smiled and said words I will never forget. I am Jake. I am 34 years old. 6 months ago, my life cracked open in the quietest way possible. Rebecca stood in our apartment living room, slid the engagement ring off her finger, and placed it in my palm like it was nothing more than a loose coin.
We had been together for 2 years. Somewhere in that time, we forgot how to be kind. Every talk turned into a fight. Every silence felt heavy. When it ended, I did not cry. I did not beg. I just felt tired. I packed my clothes into two suitcases and found a cheap house on Maple Grove in Portland, Oregon.
It was a quiet street with old trees and people who kept to themselves. Nobody asked questions. Nobody cared who I used to be. I wanted that. I wanted to disappear into a place where no one knew I had failed at love. The house next door looked like it belonged in a magazine. White shutters. A small wooden porch.
A garden that bloomed like clockwork. The grass was always trimmed. The flowers stood in straight lines like they had rules to follow. It looked peaceful. It looked steady. It looked like the kind of place where nothing ever broke. That is where Diane lived. The first time I saw her, she was kneeling in the garden, pulling weeds with calm hands.
