Chasing the puck

Chapter Thirty-Six

The morning light filtered through the blinds, casting soft, golden rays across the room. Sarah blinked awake, her senses slowly coming to life as she took in the unfamiliar surroundings. For a moment, she felt disoriented, the quiet of the apartment so different from the life she’d left behind. There was no sound of Tyler moving around in the kitchen, no shared morning routine. It was just her—and the silence.

A deep breath filled her lungs, and with it came the realization that this was her new reality. She was alone, truly alone, for the first time in years. There was a pang of sadness at the thought, but alongside it was a growing sense of relief. She had done it—she had made the decision, taken the steps, and now, she was here.

Slowly, Sarah sat up in bed, her eyes scanning the room. Boxes were scattered around, some half-unpacked, others still taped shut. Her belongings were here, but it didn’t quite feel like home yet. That would take time, she reminded herself. This was only the beginning.

The first thing Sarah did after climbing out of bed was make coffee. The familiar routine grounded her, providing a small sense of normalcy in an otherwise strange new chapter. She stood at the kitchen counter, waiting for the coffee to brew, and allowed her thoughts to wander. It felt surreal to be here, in this apartment that was entirely hers. She thought about the night before—the final conversation with Tyler, the way they had both accepted the inevitable. It had been hard, but necessary.

With a steaming mug of coffee in hand, Sarah moved to the living room and sat down on the couch. She glanced around at the boxes, deciding that today would be about settling in. She needed to make this place feel like hers, to create a space that reflected her independence and the new life she was building.

By mid-morning, Sarah was in full unpacking mode. She carefully placed books on the shelves, hung up photos of her family, and organized her closet. Each item she unpacked felt like a small victory, a step toward making this space her own. There were no traces of Tyler here—no reminders of the life they had shared. It was just her, surrounded by the things that made her feel grounded.

After a few hours of unpacking, Sarah took a break. She sat down on the floor, sipping water and looking around at the progress she’d made. The apartment was starting to feel more like home, but there was still a long way to go. It wasn’t just about the physical space—it was about adjusting to the emotional reality of being on her own.

Later in the afternoon, Sarah’s phone buzzed. She glanced at the screen and saw Tyler’s name. A text message. Her heart skipped a beat as she read the short message: “How are you doing? Can we talk?”

For a long moment, Sarah just stared at the screen, her mind racing. She knew Tyler was struggling, and part of her wanted to respond, to offer some comfort. But she also knew that engaging with him now would only make things harder. She needed space—real, unbroken space—to heal. With a heavy sigh, she deleted the message. It was hard, but she knew it was the right choice.

That evening, Summer came over to check out the new apartment. They sat on the balcony, sipping coffee and catching up on life. Summer was her usual supportive self, cracking jokes and offering words of encouragement.

“I’m proud of you,” Summer said, her tone more serious than usual. “I know this wasn’t easy, but you did what was best for you. That takes guts.”

Sarah smiled, feeling a warmth in her chest at Summer’s words. “It still feels weird,” she admitted. “Like I’m in this in-between space. I’m not with Tyler anymore, but I’m not fully settled here yet either.”

“That’s normal,” Summer said. “Give it time. You’re building something new, and that’s never easy. But you’ll get there.”

When Summer left, Sarah spent the rest of the evening alone, making herself dinner and settling in on the couch with a book. The silence of the apartment felt both comforting and strange. There was no one to talk to, no shared conversations or routines. But there was also no tension, no underlying sense of unease. It was just… quiet.