Echoes
Amanda lasted twenty minutes in her own apartment.
At first, it was fine. Familiar.
The couch was where she left it. The pile of mail on the counter. The jacket slung over the back of a chair. Everything in its place.
Too much in its place.
The silence pressed against her the minute she closed the door behind her. Heavy. Sharp. Deafening.
She dropped her keys into the bowl by the door and stood there, heart hammering.
The air smelled stale. The walls felt closer than they should.
Amanda crossed the living room, picking up a throw pillow and setting it back down without thinking. Opened a window. Closed it again. Wandered into the kitchen and stared into the fridge without seeing any of it.
It wasn’t about the apartment.
It was about the echo of what it used to be.
About the way every corner reminded her of being someone else—someone married, someone pretending.
She thought filing for divorce would make her feel lighter.
Maybe it had.
Maybe that was the problem.
Amanda leaned against the counter, digging her fingers into the edge hard enough to hurt.
She didn't want to be here.
Not right now.
Not when her heart felt too raw, too exposed.
Before she could talk herself out of it, she pulled out her phone.
Her fingers hesitated over the screen for half a second.
Then she typed:
Amanda: Hey. You busy?
It felt stupid the second she sent it.
Needier than she meant it to be.
She shoved the phone into her back pocket and paced the kitchen, chewing the inside of her cheek.
It buzzed almost immediately.
Angela: Always busy for you. What’s up?
Amanda’s throat tightened.
She sank onto the kitchen floor, back against the cabinets, knees pulled to her chest.
Amanda: Can I come over again, my place just feels so empty?
No explanation. No excuse.
Just the truth.
The reply came seconds later.
Angela: Always.
Amanda closed her eyes and breathed.
Then she grabbed her keys and left.
She didn’t bother locking the door behind her.
She knew where she belonged.