I guess I can hardly blame him after what I did. But then it hits me. This clip isn’t from today or yesterday. In the video, the sky is blue and clear. It’s sunny and they’re both wearing bike shorts. There’s no way this was taken in February!

I really do fling the phone aside in disgust then.

I can’t look anymore.

Only I’m right back to scrolling two minutes later, the twisty knotty feeling tightening in my gut every time I find a new comment or video. A new account who shared my misery, spread it further.

The things they say about me are ridiculous. I know they are. That it’s my fault he left. That I’ve put on weight or haven’t paid him enough attention or I’ve been too busy with work.

Of course they’re all the things that have been going around in my head since he told me he wasn’t coming on our vacation. The biting, noxious things that make me question whether I ever really deserved him at all.

Sleep seems to have completely deserted me.

Even though I wash my face and lie back down, I’m still blinking at the ceiling and chewing on my nails an hour later.

Two hours later, I set videos of my favorite celebrity chef on a loop. By five in the morning, I’m trawling for ASMR recipes, but nothing works.

I’m blinking through the window at the early morning light when my phone buzzes with a notification.

Mom: Olivia, we heard what happened. Are you OK, honey? Call when you get this and let’s talk. We think you should move back home for a while.

I stare. Move back home?

Is that what this is? Part of me would really like to. I know what it would be like. I’d be up doing hot yoga with her at five in the morning everyday, eating vegan with her and my stepmom, Trish. Constantly surrounded by their picture-perfect love story.

I love them. Fiercely. They’re inspirational.

But I can’t be there right now. Not after losing my hopes of having anything like what they’ve got.

I dial the number and bring the phone to my ear, already blinking back tears.

When Mom answers, I can’t even talk for a moment. All I can do is sob.

“Oh, sweetheart. I know. Let it out.” She patiently talks me through it until I can be coherent again.

“I-I’m sorry.” I sniff.

“Darling, what have you got to apologize for? It’s that idiot of a man who should be apologizing.”

I wipe my face on the sleeve of my pajamas. “No. It’s complicated, but we’re both to blame.”

Mom makes a tsking noise. “When are you coming home?”

There’s a pause.

“Olivia!”

“Mom, I can’t right now.”

“What do you mean?”

“I just need some space. Some time to grieve. I’ll be OK.” I cut her off when she starts to protest.

“I’m going to stay in Australia a little longer. Avoid the media. Keep my head down.” I’m making stuff up as I go, but everything I’m saying sounds good. Like it is just what I need.

“I don’t like it.”

“Mom, I know. But I just need some time to process. I can make content here, and when I’m feeling better I will. But I have savings and that gives me time to work out what Justin and I will do about the apartment and all our stuff before I have to actually deal with it, you know?”