Page 94 of The Breakaway

Crystal’s dad gave me a wink as I pulled out little treasures—a pack of gum, a mini lotion, a pair of fuzzy socks. Nothing extravagant, but it was the thought that gutted me. They didn’t have to include me. I wasn’t their kid, wasn’t even family, but they had.

That was also what made me think of Rob. The idea of him sitting alone in our house surrounded by the decorations we’d put up together by himself made me physically ill. I wanted to go back. I wanted to call his pager number. But I could no longer justify doing those things as “just a friend.”

On New Year’s Eve, Crystal and I went to a club her sister recommended down south. I still wasn’t a party person, but I wanted Crystal to be happy, and I needed a distraction. We danced our hearts out, but neither of us drank. Not smart when we were alone for the night.

Even with bass rumbling through me, my mind wouldn't stop obsessing over Logan's return.

Crystal pulled me onto the dance floor as the countdown began. "5...4...3...2...1...Happy New Year!" Auld Lang Syne played as she threw her arms around me. "This is gonna be our year, babe. I feel it." She pretended to kiss me, and I laughed so hard I snorted.

On the second, Crystal’s dad dropped us off at our respective houses on campus. I was glad he stopped at my house first. No awkwardness.

I stepped into the house, the cold air trailing behind me as I shut the door. It was immediately too quiet.

My suitcase thudded to the floor, and I looked around, my heart sinking. The pink Christmas tree we’d set up together was gone. The string lights we’d draped, the decorations we’d hung—all of it, disappeared.

I swallowed hard, kicking off my boots. The living room felt hollow. His favourite blanket was gone, the one he’d thrown over me when I fell asleep there. The books and random hockey magazines he left scattered were nowhere to be found.

I walked slowly down the hallway, my socks muffling my steps. His door was slightly ajar, and I pushed it open, bracing myself.

The room was completely empty.

His quilt, the clothes he always piled on the chair in the corner, gone. The closet door hung open, revealing nothing but a few stray hangers. I stood there, numb, barely able to catch the last scent of him.

I sank to the floor, my knees hitting the cold hardwood. My chest tightened, and the tears I’d been holding back spilled over. The sobs came fast and hard, wracking through me until I couldn’t breathe.

This wasn’t just about the decorations or the empty room. It was about him. About the way he made this place feel alive, about the stupid jokes, the late-night conversations of the pastweeks. It was about the way I noticed everything about him—the way he moved, the way his smile could light up an otherwise grey day.I couldn’t believe I was thinking this about Rob.

And the way I missed him now felt like a betrayal of everything I was supposed to feel.

How could I explain this? That I was gutted over Logan’s best friend leaving, that my chest ached every time I thought of Rob’s laugh or the way he poured a damn bowl of cereal? Guilt sank into me, sharp and suffocating. This wasn’t who I was supposed to be.

But the ache wouldn’t leave. The memories wouldn’t leave. I hated that I missed him so much it made my skin crawl.

Eventually, I forced myself to stand, wiping at my cheeks. Crying wasn’t going to change anything. Rob was gone. Logan was coming back, and I had to deal with it.

I wandered into the kitchen, staring blankly at the counter. The sink had a few stray crumbs, and the fridge still held the food I left.

Cleaning.

I could clean.

That was something I could control.

That afternoon, I tied my hair back and grabbed the spray bottle from under the sink. The countertops were wiped down with precision, every crumb and streak obliterated. I moved to the stove, scrubbing at a stubborn stain until my arm ached.

The living room came next. I vacuumed the carpet, fluffed the cushions, and dusted every surface.

By the second day, the house was spotless, but the hollowness still lingered, gnawing at the edges of my mind. I decided to tackle the closets. Sorting through my own clothes, I bagged items to donate, trying to keep myself busy.

The third day, I grabbed my coat and headed to the grocery store. The aisles were quiet, the post-holiday rush having settled.I filled the cart with everything Logan liked—eggs, bacon, bread, fresh veggies. I threw in some pasta and sauce, planning meals in my head.

Back at the house, I put the groceries away methodically, the fridge slowly filling up. Then I started cooking. A big pot of soup, a tray of baked chicken and roasted vegetables. The repetitive motions kept me grounded, the smells filling the kitchen with warmth.

By the fourth day, I scrubbed the washroom tiles, rearranged the kitchen pantry, and even cleaned out the junk drawer. When everything was finally in order, I leaned against the counter, exhaustion creeping in. The house looked perfect, ready for Logan’s return.

I ignored that it didn’t feel right.

I ignored that the only person I kept looking for wasn’t Logan.

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