My House of Pain: Becoming Wendy For Real

By the beginning of the second year, Theresa's eyes had stopped finding mine across rooms. Her body, once drawn to mine like a compass finding north, now carefully avoided contact, skirting around me as if proximity itself might be contagious. The apartment wasn't large enough for this elaborate avoidance dance, and yet somehow, she managed it with the same precision she brought to her card games.

One evening, as rain lashed against the windows and thunder growled in the distance, she placed her cards on the table with deliberate care and said, "I'm moving to Savannah."

The words hung in the air between us, heavy with finality. Not "we're moving" or "would you consider moving with me?" Just "I'm moving," a declaration of independence, a severing of whatever tenuous threads still connected us.

"When?" I asked, my voice sounding far away, like it belonged…