Our Liminal Space [+18]

Our

Pete had always imagined leaving this apartment in a blaze of glory, like the last scene of some theatrical drama where he'd obviously be the main character.

Maybe he'd toss his clothes out the window while passionately cursing every man on Earth with some exaggerated Italian hand gestures. Or maybe he would have kept it simple, maybe he'd just slap a note on the fridge—something classy like "I hope you choke on Godzilla's dick, you useless bastard."

But, of course, life has no respect for good drama. Because Pete wasn't the one who left.

Nope, Pete got dumped.

Pete sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the half-empty bedroom, the soft light from outside casting long, lazy shadows across the ceiling. The apartment was quieter than it had ever been, even quieter than that first night after Vegas had left. He could still hear the faint hum of the city outside, but inside... inside, it felt like a graveyard during winter.

No warmth. No laughter. No pointless arguments over stupid things. No footsteps pacing back and forth while Vegas rambled on about the dream house they'd build once they will have enough money—or how he had this "genius" idea for knives with built-in heaters to make it easier to cut butter straight from the fridge.

No, now there was just the quiet sound of Pete folding his shirts, packing them into his suitcase, a lo-fi playlist playing in the background, and the very loud sound of him crunching on pickles dipped in Nutella straight from the jar.

He glanced at the jar, carefully put in the middle of his crossed legs and snorted to himself. If someone had told him a year ago that he'd be sitting here, alone, with wet and sticky crumbs of pickle around his mouth and his shirt, craving for another one of his most bizarre food combination imaginable after his now-infamous hot sauce vanilla ice cream combo— the one he forced Porsche to try, only for him to throw up all over Pete's shoes.

But now? Now, it felt like the most normal thing in his world. His taste buds had gone completely crazy, and him? Well, he was sitting here, all alone, unbothered. And he wasn't even surprised anymore.

He set down the half-eaten pickle, absentmindedly wiping the smudges of Nutella from his mouth with the back of his hand and his fingers on his grey sweatpants before folding another shirt that would probably smell like a strange mix of vinegar and hazelnuts the next time he'll wear it.

It was one of Vegas' old pairs, the sweatpants —worn out but still soft, still too baggy around the thighs but now a little snug at the waist, thanks to his current "situation." He wasn't sure why he kept wearing them. Something about it just felt... reassuring, even though the scent of Vegas had faded long ago.

The scent of the asphalt after the rain. The scent of Night Blooming Jasmine.

He sighed, glancing around the apartment. Their apartment. Well, it used to be theirs. Now it was just a graveyard of forgotten promises, half-packed boxes, the sharp smell of vinegar, and the echoes of arguments that still seemed to cling to the walls. And on Pete's skin.

There were no sheets left on the bed, only the bed duvet and one pillow. The kitchen looked like it hadn't been used in days, and his suitcase sat there, half-open, half-full, waiting for him to finally make the decision to leave for good.

Outside, like every night since they moved here, the streetlights flickered to life as a faint drizzle began tapping against the windows. It was raining. But the city was still alive with its usual late-night energy—cars honking in the distance, the hum of people living their lives. But it kind of felt miles away, like a world from another life that Pete was slowly disconnecting from as he stuffed the last of his belongings into a suitcase.