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I was, thankfully, the hangover queen, and was able to just function in a state of death at work without any issues. Years of practice had taught me the perfect combination of painkillers, caffeine, and greasy food to keep me upright and semi-functional. I'd arrive at the restaurant with sunglasses hiding my bloodshot eyes, a large coffee clutched in my trembling hands, and somehow make it through my shift on autopilot.

"Rough night?" James would ask, his voice carefully neutral, and I'd grunt in response, not inviting further conversation.

The customers never seemed to notice or care that their waitress was operating at half capacity. I'd smile and take orders and deliver food with mechanical efficiency, counting down the minutes until I could go home and collapse into bed, only to repeat the cycle the next day.

Con had still not messaged me, and I told myself I was glad. His silence was a relief, really. One less complication in my life. One less person expecting things from me that I couldn't give. But sometimes, in the quiet moments between sleep and wakefulness, I'd find myself reaching for my phone, scrolling to his name in my contacts, my thumb hovering over the call button before I'd come to my senses and toss the phone aside.

I had finally gained the courage to message Matt back and tell him that I would not be coming to see him, that I was in fact not going to message him at all, and that I would like it if he didn't message me too. It had taken nearly half a bottle of tequila for that message to have happened, but I was proud of myself nonetheless.

I'd sat on my bed that night, the room spinning slightly around me, the bottle of tequila nestled between my crossed legs like a trusted friend. My phone had lit up with another message from Matt—the

third that week, each one more insistent than the last.

Come on, Geri. Just one visit. I miss you.

The words had blurred on the screen, my vision swimming with tequila and something that might have been tears if I were the type of person who still cried. I'd taken another swig directly from the bottle, the burn in my throat giving me the courage I needed.

I'd typed, my fingers clumsy on the keyboard:

Matt, I’m not coming to see you. Not now, not ever. Please stop messaging me. I don't want to hear from you again.

I'd hit send before I could second-guess myself, then immediately turned off my phone, afraid of his response. When I'd turned it back on the next morning, there was nothing—no angry tirade, no pleading messages, just silence. It was what I'd asked for, but the finality of it had settled in my chest like a stone.

One more bridge burned. One more person excised from my life. It should have felt like freedom, but instead, it just felt like another step toward some inevitable, lonely conclusion.

I had also started to look for a new job, not because my job sucked—I loved my job—but because I was tired of James giving me that look, the look of pity, like he knew I was spiralling and he wasn't going to stop me because he knew he wouldn't be able to, and now he just felt sad for the way my life was headed.

I'd catch him watching me sometimes, when he thought I wasn't looking. His eyes would follow me as I moved around the restaurant, his expression a mixture of concern and resignation that made my skin crawl. He never said anything directly—not after our last confrontation had ended with me snapping at him to mind his own business—but his silence was almost worse than any lecture could have been.

"You're better than this, Geri," his eyes seemed to say, and I'd turn away, unable to bear the weight of his disappointment.

So I'd started browsing job listings on my breaks, scrolling through endless postings for positions I was either overqualified or underqualified for, looking for something, anything, that would take me away from James's knowing gaze.

I had an interview in the city near my house with a company taking calls for doctors. It was simple, and it was five days a week. The job itself sounded mind-numbingly boring—answering phones, scheduling appointments, dealing with irate patients—but that was part of its appeal. I didn't want excitement or challenge. I wanted predictability, routine, a job I could do on autopilot while my mind remained safely disengaged.

The office was in a nondescript building in the business district, all glass and steel and anonymous efficiency. I'd put on my interview outfit—black pants, blue blouse, sensible shoes—and practiced my professional smile in the mirror before heading out. The woman who interviewed me, a middle-aged HR manager with a forgettable face and a firm handshake, had seemed neither impressed nor unimpressed by my responses to her standard questions.

"Why do you want to work here?"

"I'm looking for a new challenge."

"Where do you see yourself in five years?"

"Growing with the company, taking on more responsibility."

"What are your strengths?"

"I'm reliable, organized, and good with people."

Lies, all of them, but the kind of lies everyone tells in interviews. The kind that are expected, even appreciated. The truth—that I wanted this job precisely because it demanded nothing of me emotionally, because I could do it without caring or connecting—would hardly have been a selling point.

It was paying a little more than I was getting now, but that would be spent on the commute to and from work, so I wasn't better off, but I wasn't worse off either. The financial aspect was almost irrelevant. Money had never been my primary concern; I made enough to pay rent, buy food, and fund my increasingly frequent nights out. What more did I need?

The real appeal of the job was that I would also not know anyone and be able to just do my job without having to feel guilty. No James watching me with those knowing eyes. No regular customers asking why I looked so tired, if I was feeling okay, if there was anything they could do to help. No one who knew me well enough to see through the façade of functionality I'd constructed.

Just me, a phone, and a computer. Anonymous voices on the other end of the line who wouldn't care if I was hungover or heartbroken or slowly self-destructing. Who wouldn't look at me with pity or concern or disappointment. Who wouldn't expect me to be better than I was.

As I drove home from the interview, I found myself hoping I'd get the job, not because I wanted it, but because it represented a kind of escape. A clean slate. A place where no one knew about Con or Matt or my history of bad decisions and worse coping mechanisms. A place where I could just exist without the weight of other people's expectations or concerns.