2 – A Life Already Moving On

The city apartment felt too big for one man, even though it wasn’t all that large.

Just two bedrooms and a galley kitchen that Ezra never bothered to cook in anymore. It was clean, in a half-lived-in kind of way: mail stacked on the counter, an unmade bed, a pile of takeout containers waiting by the door.

He hadn't unpacked the boxes Clara had left behind. Not really. Her coffee mugs still sat in the top cupboard, out of sight but never really out of mind.

A single bobby pin in the bathroom drawer, an old flannel of hers buried at the bottom of the laundry basket, the scent of her perfume still lingering faintly in the fibers of the couch.

Ezra Anderson used to like coming home. Now the silence pressed in like humidity.

He sat at the small dining table, boots kicked off, still in the dark jeans and canvas work shirt he’d worn to the construction site. His hands were raw from sanding beams, but he hadn’t noticed until he saw the cracked skin around his knuckles.

Work was the only thing that made sense.

Custom renovation—kitchens, attics, restoring old beams in vintage homes—Ezra loved the satisfaction of it. The clean lines, the smell of sawdust, the rhythmic hum of power tools. Out there, he knew what he was doing. He didn’t have to talk. He didn’t have to feel.

At least not about the things that kept him up at night.

His phone buzzed beside him. He didn’t reach for it.

It had been ringing more than usual since the breakup. Mostly their mutual friends—Clara’s friends, really—checking in on him like they were poking a wounded dog. He appreciated the concern, but every call was a reminder that he was alone now.

[Missed Call – Liana (4x)]

Ezra sighed and finally picked it up. The glow of the screen cast a pale light on his face. He looked older than thirty-two lately. Maybe it was the circles under his eyes, or the way his shoulders always seemed tense now, like he was bracing for a hit.

A minute later, it buzzed again.

[Liana]: You okay? I know Clara’s being a mess. You want me to come over? We could do a wine-and-vent? Or bourbon-and-break-stuff?

[Liana]: Also, I heard she told people you cheated. WTF? Want me to correct the record? I still have that one pic of her kissing that barista.

Ezra stared at the messages for a long moment before replying:

[Ezra]: I’m good. Just tired. Appreciate you.

He wasn’t good. But he didn’t want to talk about it.

He tossed the phone onto the table and went to open a beer. The hiss of the bottle cap releasing echoed too loudly in the quiet. He took a sip, not because he craved it, but because it was there. A distraction. A numbing agent.

From the other side of the wall came muffled voices—his neighbors, Mrs. June and Mr. Alverez, both retired, both avid listeners of every creak and whisper that happened in the apartment complex.

“Poor boy,” June said, not even trying to lower her voice. “Been moping around for weeks.”

“I heard Clara left him for someone younger,” Alverez added with an audible sniff.

Ezra leaned his forehead against the fridge and closed his eyes. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to laugh or punch the drywall.

They meant well, probably.

Everyone meant well.

That didn’t make it easier.

Sometimes, when he caught himself thinking too long about it, it wasn’t even the betrayal that hurt the most. It was the waste of time. The years spent trying.

Fixing things that were already cracked beneath the surface. He’d spent the last six months trying to patch over fractures with flowers, with effort, with quiet apologies for things that weren't really his fault. He hadn’t even liked who he was becoming around her at the end.

He made it through two sips of beer and a half-hearted rewatch of some old renovation show before the doorbell rang.

He didn’t move at first. But it rang again. And again.

When he opened the door, he was surprised to find the teenager from down the hall—Sam—holding a Tupperware container and trying not to look awkward.

“Uh, my mom made lasagna,” he said. “She says it’s the ‘pity kind’ but like, the good pity. You know?”

Ezra blinked, then smiled faintly. “Thanks, kid.”

Sam shuffled. “Also, she says if you don’t eat it, she’ll assume you’re dead and call 911.”

Ezra chuckled despite himself. “Tell her I said thanks. And I’m still breathing.”

Barely.

He closed the door behind him and stood in the entryway for a moment, staring at the lasagna in his hands like it might tell him what to do next. He set it on the counter without opening it.

He didn’t eat that night. He didn’t really sleep, either. He lay on his back, fully dressed, staring at the ceiling fan spinning overhead and wondering if this was it—if this was how it was going to feel from now on.

Empty. Echoing. Like being halfway out the door of a life that had already moved on without him.

It was around midnight when the call came.

Ezra was brushing his teeth in the bathroom, wearing sweatpants and an old concert T-shirt, eyes glassy from exhaustion. The electric toothbrush buzzed like a distant drill against his molars. He didn’t even hear the first buzz of the phone on the sink.

The second one caught his attention. He glanced down at the screen.

Unknown number.

He wiped his hands on a towel and picked up anyway.

“Hello?”

A voice on the other end—female, gentle, clinical.

“Mr. Anderson?”

His stomach tightened. “Yes?”

“This is Officer Raines from the Grayson County Sheriff’s Department. I’m calling about your sister, Megan Anderson.”

Ezra’s hand went cold.

“There’s been an accident. I’m so sorry. There was a car crash earlier tonight. She didn’t make it.”

The silence that followed felt like someone had pressed pause on the entire world.

Ezra couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

The officer kept talking, gently, explaining the logistics. Something about the kids. About next of kin. About needing him to come down.

Words washed over him like static. “Highway 83... hit head-on... rain was bad... kids are safe... CPS is on standby... you’re listed in the will...”

Ezra stood in the bathroom, shaking, toothbrush still in hand, the mint foam slowly dripping into the sink.

He stared at his reflection in the mirror. His face looked pale, mouth parted, pupils blown wide. His mind was trying to process it—Megan, gone? The kids—Mia, the twins?

They didn’t even know yet. Or maybe they did. Maybe they were already at some holding center, surrounded by strangers, wondering why their uncle hadn’t come.

And just like that, his old life was over.

The city lights still glowed outside. The fridge still hummed. The lasagna still sat untouched on the counter.

But Ezra had already left this place in his mind.

He was somewhere else now. Somewhere far from the familiar buzz of apartment walls and awkward neighborly gossip. Somewhere colder. More real.

Somewhere with grief waiting just beyond the next breath.