Chapter Five

Isabella’s POV

I moved to a motel after I left the house. Not because I wanted to—but because I had nowhere else to go.

The silence in the motel room stretched between me and the faded walls, almost insulting in its weight—like it was daring me to break.

I sat on the edge of the bed, my body stiff and fragile, as if the slightest movement might shatter everything inside me. The air smelled stale—old furniture and cheap cleaning spray, the kind that never quite masks the ache of forgotten memories. The curtains, yellowed and thin, filtered the late afternoon light into a dull orange haze. It should’ve felt like a fresh start.

It didn’t.

My suitcase sat zipped in the corner, staring back at me like a silent judge. I left the house three hours ago. I should’ve cried. I should’ve screamed. Instead, I just walked away.

I hugged my knees to my chest and stared at the blank wall. My phone lay facedown beside me, the screen dark. I didn’t want to see it—not after the message that ended everything.

“I need you to leave the house. She’s moving in.”

No call. No explanation. No last look. Damon hadn’t even bothered with a full sentence of closure—just a cold text. And now… here I was, in a motel room colder than the silence that had grown between us.

I closed my eyes and a memory crashed in, uninvited.

We’d come to a place like this once—not the same motel, but the feeling was hauntingly familiar. The dim lights, the creaky mattress, the steady hum of the broken air vent that never stopped buzzing.

Damon had surprised me with the trip back then, when we still laughed easily and touched without hesitation. We escaped the world for a weekend—no phones, no work, no distractions.

“I want you all to myself,” he’d whispered, pulling me close as we collapsed onto the bed.

That night, he loved me slowly.

His hands mapped every inch of me like it was the first time, and maybe the last time we made love without walls or doubts between us. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat. I remembered the way his mouth found the curve of my neck, the breathless promises, the laughter when the headboard hit the wall and we both collapsed into hysterics.

We held each other afterward, tangled in sweat and sheets, whispering dreams we didn’t yet know would shatter.

I snapped back to the present with a harsh breath, tears burning behind my eyes.

How did we go from that to this?

My eyes drifted to my bare finger. Panic flared—where was my ring?

Then I remembered.

The envelope. The divorce papers. I had signed them in quiet defeat and dropped the ring on top, sealing everything we had in that single, fragile gesture. I hadn’t even realized I’d done it until now. The cold metal resting against the manila envelope felt heavier than I expected—like a weight pressing down on all the promises we’d made.

I reached for my phone again, almost without thinking. I didn’t want to talk, not really. But I didn’t want to feel so alone either.

One name blinked on the screen—Mia.

My best friend. The one person who knew all the jagged parts of me and loved me anyway.

I tapped the call button.

“Bella?” Mia’s voice was instantly alert. “Where are you? Are you okay?”

I swallowed hard, surprised my voice still worked. “I’m at a motel. Off Lexington. Damon asked me to leave… She’s moving in.”

Mia was silent for a moment. Then her breath caught. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, voice raw. “That’s… I don’t even have words.”

I leaned my head back against the headboard. “I thought I could handle it. I thought I was ready, but—Mia, it hurts in places I didn’t know existed.”

“I know it does. You gave everything to him, Bella. And he didn’t even have the decency to look you in the eye.”

I blinked back tears. “I left my ring… on the divorce papers.”

Mia sighed, bitter and tired. “That’s okay. Maybe it needed to stay behind.”

“I don’t even remember doing it,” I whispered. “That’s the part that scares me. Like I’m losing pieces of myself without realizing.”

“You’re not,” she said quickly. “You’re just exhausted. Heartbreak does that. It strips you down, makes you forget who you were before the pain.”

I was silent for a long moment. Then I asked the question I’d been afraid to say out loud.

“Do you think I can start over? Or is it too late for me?”

“It’s never too late,” Mia answered firmly. “But you have to stop standing in the ruins and calling it home. You can’t heal in the same place that broke you. Not just the house, Bella. The marriage. The lies. All of it. You have to walk away from the wreckage.”

The lump in my throat tightened. “I don’t know how.”

“You don’t have to figure it all out today,” she said gently. “Start by coming to me. You don’t need to be alone right now.”

I hesitated. “I don’t want to be a burden.”

“Stop it,” she snapped, the firmness underneath soft. “You’re my best friend. You would’ve done the same for me. Now pack your things and text me the address. I’ll be there in twenty.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. You’d do the same for me. Besides, I miss your terrible coffee and your dramatic rants.”

I laughed—weak, but real.

Maybe that was the first crack in the wall I’d built around myself.

“I guess I could use a change of scenery,” I murmured, half to myself.

“You could use a fresh start,” she said. “And trust me, you’ll feel better once you’re not surrounded by the ghosts of what was.”

I nodded, though she couldn’t see me. I exhaled slowly, feeling the tension ease—just a little. “Okay. I’ll pack.”

When the call ended, I sat still for a long moment. Then I finally moved.

I crossed to my suitcase and began packing the few clothes I’d pulled out earlier. My movements were slow and deliberate, each folded shirt a small goodbye to the version of me that thought love would be enough.

I paused at the mirror. My face was pale, my eyes hollow. But I was still here. Still breathing.

Still capable of starting over.

I zipped the suitcase shut and walked to the door. Before I stepped out, my eyes caught the small notepad on the motel desk. I hesitated, then tore out a single sheet and picked up the pen beside it.

I didn’t write for Damon.

I wrote for myself.

The words came slowly at first, then faster—as if they’d been waiting, buried beneath all the silence and shame. I didn’t worry about grammar or if the sentences made sense. I just let it spill out—the ache, the betrayal, the love I lost, and the pieces of myself I wanted to find again.

When I finished, I folded the paper gently and slipped it into the side pocket of my suitcase.

Maybe I’d burn it one day. Or maybe I’d keep it, to remind myself how far I’d come.

For the first time in a long time, I felt lighter. Like I’d finally said something that mattered—even if no one else ever read it.

I turned toward the door. One last glance at the peeling walls, the faded curtains, the still air heavy with everything I couldn’t take with me.

“I can’t heal here,” I whispered.

Not in what broke me.

And then, softer, to no one but myself:

“It’s time to begin again.”

I walked out. This time—I didn’t look back.