You set the note on the kitchen counter and weigh it down with the ceramic salt shaker his mother once called “cheap-looking.” For a second, the apartment is so quiet you can hear the refrigerator hum and the traffic six floors below breathing its usual gray breath through Del Valle. Then you straighten, pull your suitcase upright, and walk out without looking back.
The elevator ride down feels unreal at first, like the opening scene of somebody else’s new life. Your face in the mirrored wall looks calm, almost bored, which surprises you. You expected tears, shaking hands, maybe one last dramatic collapse in the hallway. Instead, what you feel is the cold, clean relief of a door locking behind a fire.
Outside, the late-morning sun is already warm enough to make the pavement smell like dust and old rain. You load your bags into the back of the rideshare and send Sofía a single text. I did it. She replies before the car reaches the corner. Good. I have coffee, spare hangers, and violent loyalty. Come here.
You laugh under your breath for the first time in twelve hours.
