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My phone buzzes against the kitchen counter, and I already know it’s him before I look at the screen.

Tyler: If you’re down, we can do it again.

I set the phone face down and try to focus on my morning coffee, but it buzzes again. And again.

Tyler: Come on. I know you fucking liked it.

Tyler: Stop fucking ignoring me. I know you loved it, Sage.

Tyler: We can have fun.

Tyler: Stop playing with me.

My hands shake as I grab the phone, watching message after message flood my screen. Each buzz feels like nails against my skin, dragging me back to three nights ago—the humiliation, the way he laughed afterward, the way he made me feel like nothing.

I block his number with trembling fingers.

Dating Tyler was supposed to be different.

He was this golden boy basketball player who came to the clinic with what seemed like a legitimate shoulder injury.

Charming, sweet, grateful for the physical therapy I provided.

I should have seen through it. I should have realized a barely tweaked rotator cuff didn’t need months of treatment.

But I was fresh out of school, excited about my new position as a Physical Therapist Assistant at UC San Diego and stupidly flattered that someone like him wanted someone like me.

Now I know he was never hurt. He just wanted access. Wanted to figure out my weaknesses, my boundaries, wanted to see how far he could push before I broke completely.

And three nights ago, he found out.

I can’t stay here. Can’t face walking into that clinic every day knowing he might show up. Can’t handle the way he looked at me afterward—like he owned something that used to belong to me.

My phone buzzes from a different number.

Unknown: You think blocking Tyler is going to solve your problems?

Unknown: Remember I was there. I know what a little freak you are.

Unknown: We want round two.

Ice floods my veins. Marcus. Tyler’s best friend and teammate. The threat is clear, and I know Tyler is sitting right next to him. I block this number too.

I sit for a moment in my anxiety. It’s thick, cloudy. I can’t even think straight.

Within two hours, my entire life is packed into the back of my Honda Civic. Six months at this job. Six months building something that felt like a future, and I’m throwing it all away because of what he did to me. How he tricked me, used me. I can’t stay because he won’t ever leave me alone.

The call to my supervisor is brief and professional. Family emergency . Had to leave immediately. Hope we can stay on good terms. She’s disappointed but understanding, and I hate myself for lying to someone who gave me a chance.

But staying isn’t an option.

The first motel I stop at smells like mold and stale cigarettes.

I sit on the scratchy comforter with my laptop balanced on my knees, applying to every university job posting I can find.

Physical therapy positions, athletic departments, anything that might give me a fresh start somewhere Tyler and his friends can’t reach me.

I have no idea where I’m going, so I apply to everywhere.

My fingers fly across the keyboard, crafting cover letters and uploading my resume over and over. I’ve got good credentials—graduated magna cum laude, excellent references from my clinical rotations, six months of real-world experience. Someone has to hire me.

They have to.

I hope.

When it’s day two, I’m at another motel, applying to another dozen applications. My savings account bleeds money with every mile, every night in these roadside stops, but I keep driving east. Keep applying. Keep hoping.

Day three brings the call I’ve been praying for.

“Sage Monroe?” The voice is crisp, professional. “This is Janet Martinez from Hawthorne University’s Athletic Department. We received your application for the Physical Therapist Assistant position.”

My heart hammers against my ribs. “Yes, hi. Thank you so much for calling.”

“Your credentials are impressive. Would you be available for an interview? I know you mentioned in your cover letter that you’re relocating, so we could arrange a video call if that works better.”

“Yes!” The word comes out too fast, desperate. “A video call would be perfect.”

Two hours later, I’m sitting in a McDonald’s parking lot with my laptop propped against the steering wheel, trying to look professional while semis rumble past on the interstate.

Janet Martinez appears on screen. She’s middle-aged, has kind eyes, and is the sort of person who actually seems to care about doing her job well.

The interview goes better than I dared hope.

She asks about my experience, my goals, why I want to work in collegiate athletics.

I don’t mention Tyler or running or the fact that I’m currently homeless and desperate.

Instead, I talk about helping athletes reach their potential, about being part of something bigger than myself.

“We’d like to offer you the position,” she says at the end of our call. “Can you start Monday?”

Monday. Four days from now.

“Absolutely,” I manage, trying not to cry with relief.

Now I just need somewhere to live.

The Facebook group for Hawthorne University area housing is my lifeline. I scroll through posts about shared apartments, studio rentals, people desperate to fill empty rooms. My budget is pathetic, but I post anyway:

Recent graduate starting new job at HU. Clean, quiet, responsible. Looking for affordable room ASAP. Can provide references.

The responses come quickly. A few guys offering basement rooms that sound sketchy as hell. An elderly woman with a studio apartment that’s twice what I can afford. And then…

Hi! I’m Emma, also in my early twenties. I have a two-bedroom apartment about ten minutes from campus. Rent would be $450/month plus utilities. Clean, safe neighborhood. Let me know if you want to see it!

I message her back immediately.

Emma’s apartment is the third place I look at, and the moment I walk through the door, I know this is the place.

The living room is bright and airy, decorated with plants and fairy lights that make everything feel warm and welcoming.

The kitchen is small but functional, and she’s already cleared out half the cabinets and fridge space for a potential roommate.

“The room comes furnished,” Emma says, leading me down a short hallway. “Previous tenant left the bed and dresser, so you wouldn’t need to worry about that.”

The bedroom is perfect—small but cozy, with a window that looks out over a tree-lined street. After three nights in progressively grimier motels, it looks like paradise.

“I’ll take it,” I say before she can finish the tour.

Emma grins. “Okay.”

“This is perfect. Thank you.”

We shake hands, and for the first time in days, I can breathe properly. I have a job. I have a place to live. I’m three thousand miles away from Tyler and Marcus and everything that happened in that hotel room three nights ago.

I need to put that behind me and move forward.

That night, lying in my new bed in my new room in my new life, I finally check my phone. Seventeen missed calls from unknown numbers. Text messages from more unknown numbers getting progressively more threatening. Voicemails I’m too scared to listen to.

Unknown: You can’t run forever, Sage. I know people everywhere.

My hands shake as I unblock his original number and change his contact name to FUCK YOU. Then I type out the message I should have sent days ago.

Sage: You’re never going to see me again. Leave me the fuck alone!

I hit send and immediately block the number again.

Tomorrow, I start over. New job, new town, new life. Tonight, I’m just going to lie here and pretend that three thousand miles is enough distance to keep the nightmares away. Pretend that I’m finally safe.