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9

FOUR BAGS, NINE LIVES

N ow that the move is happening sooner, I really need to get this apartment sorted.

My gut churns as I survey all the furniture and the work that still needs to be done.

I’m leaving the big pieces for my ex because I’m not a petty bitch, and it would be impractical to transport any of them to the Cay—so the mattress, dresser, nightstands, exercise bike, couch, TV, entertainment stand… all of that will stay.

But I have all this smaller stuff and I somehow have to ruthlessly prioritize what to take with me. I just can’t afford to hire movers and take everything I own. I’m on a budget, with no vehicle. Everything I take has to come with me on a plane and fit into suitcases.

I sigh as I look at the hand weights I’ve treasured and used for the past several years. And my beautiful stand-up paddle board that I barely got to use. It’d be perfect where I’ll be going, but I’m going to have to say goodbye.

Fuck, I hate this. Breakups are depressing. Leaving a life you thought was going to last forever hurts like hell, even though I know it’s the right decision.

I feel lonely now, but I felt pretty lonely in the relationship, too. Better to get out now rather than just keep things going because it feels comfortable and safe.

I turn on a podcast and get to work, organizing and sorting. I carry trash bag after trash bag of items that I won’t be taking and drop them into the trash chute. It’s sad to get rid of so many things, but hearing the bags thunking down the chute, pinging against the little metal panels, is oddly cathartic. I feel wasteful getting rid of some of it, and I’d inquired with a junk company, but they literally wanted to charge more than the cost of Sabre’s and my plane ticket just to haul a couple of items away.

I need to be pragmatic and less hard on myself. Sure, in an ideal world, I’d donate more and sell more things, but I’m just not in a position to do that. If I delay this move any further, I’m going to be sacrificing my already declining mental health. I can’t do that to myself, or I’ll be no good to anyone. For once, I need to prioritize me. Sabre feeds off my energy so hard as well. He bites my ankles extra at the moment, and I can’t blame him. I’m uprooting his life, too, after all. Hopefully it’ll be an upgrade. I guess we’ll see when we get there.

A few days later

The stress of hauling four suitcases and a cat through the airport is intense.

The cart stand is broken, so I basically have to hoist Sabre onto my shoulder and then drag the suitcases one by one just a little bit further, until we’re finally in queue with the check-in team. Because I have a cat, I can’t just go to the machines to check in like I normally would. A few people look at me with amusement.

“Quite a few suitcases you have there,” says one nosy old man, smirking as I walk past, my breath ragged.

No fucking shit, Sherlock , I think.

Nobody offers to help, not that I would expect them to, and comments like his make me want to stop what I’m doing and knock the smirk right off his face. But I’m naturally polite in these types of interactions, and although it’s something I’m working on, I just give a tense smile and move on. Then I’m so fucking mad at myself for smiling at an idiotic comment. But I’ll worry about that later.

Finally, we’re all checked in and the bags are whisked away on a conveyor belt.

It’s just me and Sabre now. Much easier to maneuver than hundreds of pounds of stuff. I really hope everything makes it there safely, but it’s completely out of my hands, so I make peace with that. One less responsibility until I get to the other end of the trip.