**_“It’s over.”_**

Those two words flash across my iPhone screen, burning into my mind indelibly. I can still visualize the white glow even after squeezing my teary eyes shut. Literally, my future has been doomed by a text message.

**_THUD._**

Cracks from my beloved screen protector becomes nearly inaudible as I go into half-shock, I haven’t processed my shattered phone.

My hands are vibrating, my heart pounding so ferociously I hear it in my ears, and my right knee has been frantically shaking so much my calf is starting to tire.

I’ve been waiting at his apartment for two hours, willing him to come home—to talk things over—to convince him—to—oh, I don’t even know!

How could he do this to me?

I jolt at the jingle of his keys at the front door and my breath hitches. Then, the dark wood door softly swings open with a low groan, revealing my boyfriend. My ex?

“Babe,” I cry out, jumping out my chair. I don’t know why, but I reach for him, despite seeing the neutral, passive expression on his beautiful face.

“Get out before I call the cops.”

The air feels thick and gross, weighing heavily on my chest as I halt suddenly in my tracks, my outstretched hand dropping to my side.

His words are deadly, cutting through my heart with brutal unforgivingness. Overwhelmed with a million emotions, there’s no way I have a steady grip on reality.

“Please, just… we need to talk,” I stammer, my voice cracking under the weight of the situation.

I search his face, desperate for a sign of the man I thought loved me, cared for me.

But that man is dead. His expression remains cold, detached. He walks inside, passing me as if I’m not even there.

The door shuts behind him with a sound of haunting finality.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” He grunts. His emotionally-devoid face stares right through me. “You can’t stay here. I told you it’s over.”

Why is it hard to breathe? And why is the world spinning right now?

“I have nowhere to go. You know that,” I plead, my squeaky voice barely above a whisper.

The reality of everything begins to sink in, the vulnerability of being unemployed and homeless looming over me like Death waiting.

He looks at me, finally, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something—pity, perhaps. But it has disappeared as quickly as it arrived.

“You should’ve thought about that before,” he says coldly, turning away to grab my traveling bag from the closet. “Pack your things.”