[Sophie’s POV]

Cleo doesn’t waste time.

By the time I wake up the next morning, she’s already busy—laptop open on the kitchen table, phone pressed to her ear, speaking in low tones about sublets and short-term rentals in cities I’ve never considered living in. There’s a notepad beside her covered in her messy handwriting: lists of things I’ll need, timelines, practical details I haven’t had the mental space to consider.

“She’s awake,” she says into the phone, glancing up at me. “I’ll call you back.”

She hangs up and gestures to the coffee pot. “Made it strong. You look like you need it.”

“What are you doing?” I ask, even though I already know.

“What I said I’d do.” She tears a page from the notepad and slides it across the table. “I found three options. One’s a small town upstate—quiet, cheap, close enough that I can visit. One’s near the coast, which might be good for your head. And one’s—”

“Cleo.” My voice cracks. “You don’t have to—”

“Yes, I do.” She stands, crossing the kitchen to grip my shoulders. “You made your decision. Now let me help you execute it.”

I stare at the list, the words blurring as tears prick my eyes. She’s already done more research in one morning than I’ve managed in two weeks of spiraling.

“I don’t deserve you,” I whisper.

“Probably not,” she agrees with a small smile. “But you’re stuck with me anyway.”

The day passes in a haze of packing and planning.

I move through my apartment like I’m already gone, pulling clothes from drawers without really seeing them, wrapping books in newspaper, dismantling the life I built here piece by piece.

Every object I touch carries a memory—the lamp Adrian bought me when I complained about the lighting, the throw blanket Cassian left behind one night and never took back, the photos on my fridge of the three of us at events I can barely remember attending.

I take nothing that belongs to them. I can’t.

My phone sits face-down on the counter, a constant reminder of what I’m avoiding. It’s been three days since I told them I needed space, three days of carefully crafted distance that’s worked better than I expected.

Adrian texted twice yesterday. Short messages, restrained in a way that tells me he’s trying to respect my boundaries even though it’s killing him. Thinking of you. Call when you’re ready.

Cassian called once, let it ring until voicemail picked up, then didn’t leave a message. That silence said more than any words could have.

I’ve successfully kept them away.

The thought should feel like an accomplishment, but it lands like a stone in my stomach. I’m not proud of this. Every hour of distance is another crack in something I spent years building, another wound I’m inflicting on men who’ve done nothing but love me in the only ways they know how.

Adrian, who burned his entire career to the ground for me and is only now seeing it rise from the ashes.

Cassian, who reshaped his entire understanding of love because I asked him to.

They don’t deserve this silence. They don’t deserve to be shut out while I make decisions that will change all of our lives. But every time I think about telling them—about watching their faces shift from confusion to hurt to that particular kind of jealousy that lives beneath the surface of everything we’ve built—my throat closes and the words die before they’re born.

Adrian’s name glows on the screen, then Cassian’s just below it. My thumb hovers over both, trembling with the urge to call, to confess, to end this charade before it goes any further.

But I don’t.

Because I know what will happen if I do. Adrian will want answers I can’t give. Cassian will go quiet in that wounded way that cuts deeper than any shouting. They’ll both want to fix this, to claim their place in a future that might not include them the way they’re imagining.

And I can’t watch that. I can’t be the axis around which they destroy each other.

My phone lights up again, this time with Cassian’s name. I let it ring. Then Adrian. Then Cleo texts once more, just a heart emoji, like a lifeline.

I sit on the floor, back against the couch, hands resting over my stomach again. “I’m doing this,” I whisper to the quiet room. “I’m doing this for us.”

The next morning, I don’t overthink the destination. I don’t analyze the symbolism. I just choose movement over stagnation.

I stood in the living room, with Cleo already throwing the suitcases in the car. As I glance at my apartment for the last time, my phone buzzes again. This time, I read the message.

Please don’t shut us out.

I close my eyes, fighting tears. “I’m not,” I whisper. “I’m protecting us all.”

And I turn to leave the city with the sun rising behind me, carrying a future that terrifies me and a choice that finally feels like mine.