CORRECTIONS OF THE PAST

SPACE

The next morning, I packed a small bag—not everything, just enough to make leaving easier. The girls were with their dad for a few days, and I needed a reset. My hands trembled as I zipped the suitcase closed. I wasn't leaving out of anger; I was leaving out of acceptance.

I grabbed my phone, thumb hovering over Zac's contact. For a long minute I just stared, replaying every memory that number held. Then I opened our thread and typed the only words that felt right:

"I need space."

I hit send, switched my phone to Do Not Disturb, and set it face-down on the counter. No second-guessing this time.

Locking the door behind me, I rolled my suitcase to the car and loaded it in. I wasn't going far—just far enough that I wouldn't be tempted to run back into Zac's arms or keep letting my own needs shrink beneath his.

I called an old college friend, the one who'd always told me her door was open.
"Does that offer still stand?" I asked.
Her voice came through warm and sure. "Of course it does. Come on."

After she texted me the address, I buckled my seat belt. The sun was just beginning to rise, a thin orange line stretching across the horizon. I reached up to the visor, pulled down my sunglasses, and caught my reflection in the mirror.

The woman staring back looked unfamiliar—eyes swollen, expression hollow, but there was something else there too: resolve.

I shook my head, trying to keep the tears from falling, and turned on the radio. Cardi B's "Outside" came blaring through the speakers, bold and unapologetic.

"Yeah," I whispered, voice trembling but steadying. "I need space. We need space."

Then I turned the volume up until the bass rattled the windows, rolled them down, and sang along—half crying, half smiling—as the wind tangled my hair and the city faded behind me.

The drive felt longer than it was, mostly because my mind wouldn't sit still. Every song on the radio reminded me of something—of us. The way Zac used to drum his fingers on the steering wheel, or how we'd make up stories about strangers at red lights. I laughed softly at the memory, then the laugh caught in my throat. Some memories just sting differently when they still have fingerprints on them.

By the time I pulled into my friend Kizzy's neighborhood, the sun was higher, the morning officially awake. Her house sat on a quiet cul-de-sac surrounded by tall oak trees that looked like they'd been guarding the place for decades. Peaceful. The kind of peace I hadn't felt in years.

As I parked, I sat there for a minute just staring at her front door. My heart beat faster than it should have. It's funny how leaving chaos doesn't automatically make you calm—you just start noticing how much noise you've been carrying inside.

The front door flew open before I could even knock. Kizzy stood there in her robe, hair wrapped in a scarf, a big grin spreading across her face. "Girl! You look like you've seen a ghost."

I laughed, the first real laugh in weeks, and she pulled me into a hug that felt like home. No questions. No judgment. Just warmth.

"Come on in," she said, grabbing my suitcase. "You hungry? I made breakfast."

The smell of butter and maple syrup floated through the air. I didn't realize how empty I was until my stomach growled. "You didn't have to cook for me."

"Please," she said, waving me off. "It's either feed you or feed myself and then feel guilty for not sharing. Sit down."

I followed her into the kitchen. The counters were cluttered with mismatched mugs and a vase of half-alive flowers. It wasn't perfect, but it was real. And I needed real.

As I took a bite of her pancakes, Kizzy leaned against the counter and studied me. "So... what happened?"

I sighed. "You got a few days?"

"I got time."

I looked down at my plate. "It's Zac. It's always Zac. He's a good man, Kiz. At least, that's what I kept telling myself. But being good doesn't mean being right for me."

She nodded slowly. "Mmm. The hardest part is admitting that."

"Yeah. I kept hoping he'd change—or at least try to understand me. But every time I brought something up, it was like talking to a wall. I'd say, 'Let's fix this,' and he'd say, 'Let's just start over.'" I paused. "You can't start over without cleaning up the mess first."

Kizzy gave a small smile. "You finally tired of being the one who sweeps?"

That hit deeper than I expected. I felt tears gathering, but I blinked them away. "Yeah. I guess I am."

We sat in silence for a moment. The kind of silence that doesn't need to be filled. I looked around her kitchen—sunlight dancing across the floor tiles, the soft hum of the refrigerator—and for the first time in a long time, my body didn't feel tense.

After breakfast, Kizzy showed me to the guest room. The bed was neatly made, lavender sheets tucked tight, a small diffuser puffing out the faint scent of eucalyptus. I set my suitcase down and stood by the window, watching the trees sway in the light breeze.

It was quiet. Too quiet. My fingers twitched, tempted to grab my phone. Maybe Zac had texted back. Maybe he'd finally understood what I meant.

I reached for my phone on instinct but stopped halfway. No. Not this time. I needed to feel this silence, even if it was uncomfortable. Especially because it was uncomfortable.

I sat on the edge of the bed, took a deep breath, and whispered to myself, "Space is good for clarity." The words sounded foreign at first, but the more I said them, the more real they felt.

Later that afternoon, Kizzy dragged me out to her backyard. "You been in your head all day," she said. "Come sit in the sun with me."

We sat on the patio, legs stretched out, Corona's sweating in the glasses with limes attached. The air smelled like fresh-cut grass and the faint sweetness of her neighbor's grill.

"You ever feel like you forgot who you were?" I asked after a while.

She turned to me. "Girl, I feel like that every other year. But you always find your way back. Sometimes it just takes leaving what tried to erase you."

I let that sink in. Leaving what tried to erase me. That's exactly what I'd done, even if part of me still felt erased.

As the sky shifted into shades of pink and orange, I realized I hadn't thought about checking my phone in hours. That had to mean something. Maybe healing didn't start with answers. Maybe it started with stillness—with learning to sit in your own company and not rush to fill the silence.

That night, lying in bed under Kizzy's lavender sheets, I thought about everything I'd lost and everything I might gain. Zac's voice still echoed somewhere in my chest, but it wasn't as loud.

For the first time, I wasn't trying to silence it. I was just letting it fade.

I knew the road ahead would be messy—healing always is—but at least now it was my mess. My story. My next chapter.

And as I drifted off to sleep, one thought carried me into my dreams:

Maybe everything that glistens isn't gold—but that doesn't mean I can't learn to shine on my own.