Maya had gone through the five stages of grief when I told her I was leaving.
Denial: “Absolutely not! You’re not leaving me again! Life is so fucking boring without you!”
Anger: “I blame Kieran! I blame your fucking family! I blame you, dammit!
Bargaining: “Okay. Can I come with you? I know it’s about self-discovery, but what if I don’t make a peep? You won’t even know I’m there.”
Depression: “How am I supposed to survive without you? I'll die before you return, Sera, die!”
Acceptance: “Ugh, fine. Go. Can I at least throw you a send-off party?”
I’d broken her heart by refusing. I didn’t want to drag things out, and I didn’t want to bear the strange, aching weight of goodbyes.
The morning I set off was disarmingly peaceful. Soft LA sunlight filtered through the curtains in warm ribbons, catching the dust motes floating lazily in the air.
The house was still, quiet enough that I could hear my own heartbeat—a steady, determined rhythm reminding me this was really happening.
