8:14 PM - FEBRUARY
I didn’t say goodbye. Not to the apartment, not to anyone at the office, not to the life I’d spent years clawing my way into.
I just left.
Keys on the counter for the realtor. She coordinated the sale of whatever furniture remained. I had marked half my clothes for donation. The realtor had the other half vacuum-sealed and shipped to storage. She was practiced at this kind of exit. Quiet efficiency born from experience.
Jessica had found her. Anticipated what I would need for the move-out. Found someone who could handle all the touch points.
Q1 was underway at Waypoint. The team would be deep into new deals by now. Getting reps without me.
There had been half-hearted discussions with recruiters. I could probably land at a similar firm, similar position, similar PE shop. But the city had started to feel like blocks of identical people striving in copy-pasted concrete rectangles suspended over copy-pasted concrete lines.
When I first saw the truck, or maybe when it saw me, something had clarified.
No wife. No job. Only uneasy ties to a city that no longer felt like mine.
If I was going to be restless, I could at least do it somewhere more restful.
So it was just me and a few bags in the bed of the truck. No plan. No itinerary. Just the knowledge that staying would mean a burden I’d have to carry every day.
I sat in the garage under harsh lights. The place seemed impatient to see me go.
I checked the glovebox again, more ritual than need. My hand brushed a dark recess I hadn’t noticed before.
A thin leather cord came free. At the end, a pewter medallion.
St. Augustine. Worn at the edges. On the back, in small letters: Ora pro nobis.
The name sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. Something about carrying it felt honest.
I put the cord in my pocket. Not ready to wear it around my neck. Not yet.
I turned the ignition.
It was past midnight when I crossed the bridge. The city stretched behind me like a glowing wound. More shape than substance. It didn’t look like home anymore. It looked like something I had survived.
The city didn’t say goodbye either.
Tires hummed on pavement. No music. Just rhythmic noise filling the space. I hadn’t realized how much of my life had been sound. Phones ringing, emails pinging, meetings with people clamoring for value. Compliments that were transactions. Insults designed as traps. Silence had been a luxury I couldn’t afford.
Now silence was all I had.
Part of me wanted to turn around. Drink the glow back up. But I couldn’t. That wound needed to drain.
Somewhere off the Turnpike I pulled into a gas station. I wasn’t tired. I was wired, raw and stripped thin, nerves peeled back. The station was empty. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. I filled the tank with a shaky hand and walked inside.
The kid behind the counter didn’t look up until I was standing there. Maybe nineteen. Skinny. A half-formed mustache clinging to his upper lip. A crude outline of a Latin American flag inked on his forearm. Another kid spat out by something bigger than him.
A rosary hung from the register. Cheap plastic, green beads, the cross cracked and worn smooth. Something about it stuck in my chest. It wasn’t mine. But something in it held, like a memory I hadn’t earned.
“Long drive?” he asked, eyes scanning my clothes.
I nodded. Didn’t trust my voice.
He handed me my change and turned away like I was already fading. I stepped back into the cold and stood by the pump. The skyline was almost gone now. Just a faint throb on the horizon.
I climbed into the truck. Closed the door. My world had shrunk to this small metal cocoon.
I looked in the mirror. My face split in half by light. One side pale, the other swallowed by dark. I didn’t recognize it. A mask still on, but it didn’t fit anymore.
The engine turned over. I put it in gear. Drove until the roads narrowed. Buildings disappeared. Time slowed. I kept going.
Out there in the dark, far from the highway, a pinprick of light.
A single porch light on a distant farmhouse. Soft. Steady. Unconcerned with me. Just there. Like it had always been there.
I thought of my parents’ porch back home. Soft wood chairs facing the green canopy of oak trees. I hadn’t seen them in over a year. My hand moved toward the phone. Mom would pick up. Even this late. She always did.
I didn’t call. If I heard her voice, I’d break.
I pulled my hand back and drove through the night. Racing the darkness west.
As light began to break, I turned into one of those all-day diners that helped build this country. The kind where coffee was once a quarter and truckers got steak and eggs for three dollars.
That’s when I saw the dog.
Stray. Thin. Brown with a limp. It wandered through the lot like it knew the place, like it had come here before and been unbothered. It stopped halfway across the headlights’ beam and looked at me.
Not afraid. Not begging. Just looking.
We watched each other.
Two strays in the dark.
Then it turned and walked away.
I didn’t cry. Not then. But something cracked open. Like the seal on a bottle shut too long. Just enough air to breathe again.
There was a version of me that could have turned around. Gone back. Gotten another job. Faked another day. Shaved. Tied the tie. Nodded in meetings.
That version was gone. Or dying.
I didn’t know what came next. I didn’t have the right questions yet. I just knew I couldn’t keep pretending. Couldn’t keep breaking myself down for something that never loved me back.
The city didn’t collapse. Didn’t chase me. It just kept shining, unchanged, indifferent.
I closed my eyes. Took a breath.
Staying would have killed me. Eventually.
I stepped out of the truck. The diner glowed in the early light, warm and worn. Through the window I could see a few figures hunched over coffee. Truckers, maybe. Workers heading to early shifts. People who built things, moved things, kept the country running while the rest of us slept.
I didn’t know where I was going. Didn’t know what I’d become. But I knew I was hungry, and I knew this was the kind of place that had fed generations of men heading somewhere new. Men rebuilding. Men starting over.
I walked in and sat at the counter.
Ordered the steak and eggs.