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“Look on the bright side,” Erica had chirped. “He let you down gently. He was honest. You’ve got to give the guy some credit.”

Her relentless optimism makes me want to punch a wall. She always finds a silver lining, even in the darkest clouds. Like when her car got broken into and they stole the entire sound system.

She just shrugged and said, “At least they didn’t take my Beamer,” as if that made it all okay.

That’s Erica. Sunshine bottled up in human form, impervious to disappointment. I’m not Erica, not in the farthest stretch of anyone’s imagination.

What’s more, this isn’t about stolen electronics or scratched paint. This is my heart. My trust. My dignity. Torn into pieces and tossed aside like yesterday’s trash.

Let me down gently? Please.

I could list a hundred reasons why that’s bullshit, but one eclipses them all.

Why did he need to let me down at all? Why whisper promises in silence? Why pull me in like the tide—just to vanish like mist?

Because he’s hiding. Behind instincts and ancient fears. Behind “the curse of the wolf,” as if that excuses walking away.

I remember Monica’s trembling voice when she told us about Raul’s secret and his belief in the ‘curse’. She’d cried in our arms and honestly I didn’t believe her. Who dies of a broken heart?

My disbelief didn’t matter. Raul believed it—and now Ray’s using that same excuse to not even try. A way to not consider what we could be. It’s like he’d rather avoid the possibility of pain than risk even a glimpse of happiness.

I get it, but understanding is a long way from forgiving. I’m nowhere near forgiving him, not now, maybe not ever.

We’re not children. We don’t have to write our names in the sky and profess eternal love. I’m not even asking for wedding bells. Just… a chance. A moment to figure out if the way my breath catches around him means something… if there is something that could be.

I could have told him all of this. I wanted to and would have, if he’d given me a moment, but that didn’t happen. He left me in the forest like I was baggage too heavy to carry. Like loving me was a burden he never intended to pick up. Which hurts worse than it should.

I toss and turn, sheets tangled around my legs, my skin clammy with frustration. No position is comfortable. No thought is quiet. Pulling the sheets over, only to toss them off. I must fall asleep at some point because the alarm clock’s shrill buzz tears through my skull.

The instant I wake up my thoughts are still spiraling around Ray. Great. This Monday is going to be hell.

I smack the clock harder than I should, knocking it off the stand. It continues to blare, indignantly, from the floor. I drag myself out of the tangled sheets. The air feels heavy, like the grief left in the aftermath of a nightmare. I’m not a morning person—never have been, but since working at the Bank of America, I’ve learned to fake it.

Being a bank teller isn’t glamorous, but it’s reliable. Structured. Safe. A world where two plus two always equals four. I know exactly when I clock in and when I clock out. I’m guaranteed to have my nights free. Which is better than Monica can say. Her hospital shifts pay better, but I don’t envy the stress or the long hours, life-and-death decisions and walking a tightrope of responsibility. All while trying not to crumble.

That isn’t the life for me. I like my little bubble of order. Even if, right now, it feels like everything is closing in. My apartment is somehow smaller. The entire world is.

I arrive at work, grumpy, and still thinking about Ray. But I put on my best smile and a willingness to fake it till I make it. The sliding doors hiss, letting me into the building. The absurdly high ceilings above, dramatic by design. Modeled like some Roman cathedral built to remind the masses how small they are before the might of imperial capitalism.

I realized a long time ago that’s the point. It’s not about aesthetics—it’s intimidation. Seminar after seminar has subtly drilled the idea into us. Power, prestige, illusion.

The marble counter waits like a silent sentinel. A thick barrier to keep the masses away from the money that doesn’t actually sit inthe vaults anymore. Sheila’s perched on her stool staring at her screen. Dressed in a navy-blue pantsuit crisp that is intimidating in its own right. We started this job within a week of each other, which bond has formed something at least akin to friendship.

“Morning, your redness,” she calls without looking up. “Seven thirty-four? That’s practically a miracle.”

“Please, don’t start, Sheila,” I mutter, brushing past. “God, I hate Mondays.”

“You’ve been hating Mondays since your first week here.” Her fingers pause on the keyboard as she looks at me. “Rough night?”

“Rough weekend,” I groan, letting my bag drop onto the counter with a thud that startles my screen. “Come upstate, enjoy the countryside, mingle with the locals—they’re nice, warm-hearted people,” I mimic Monica’s voice, thinning mine out to hit the high-pitched perkiness. “What a load of crap.”

Sheila snorts, covering her mouth as she chuckles.

“Sorry, Stac. I’m not laughing at you, but… the impression. That was dead on Monica.”

I give her a look, one eyebrow raised, and she mostly sobers.

“So? What happened upstate?” she asks, eyes twinkling with curiosity.