Episode 3
1376 Words
GHOST MODE ACTIVATED
The first morning after cutting Cole out of her life, Ava woke up in a bed that suddenly felt too big. It wasn’t the kind of spacious that invited you to stretch out—it was the kind that made your loneliness echo. She stared at the ceiling, letting the silence press against her ears. No passive-aggressive sigh from the other side of the bed. No phone buzzing with texts from Cole wondering where she was—because he never did.
She rolled over, pulled the covers over her head, and stayed there for an hour.
And then—she got up.
No grand epiphany. No inspirational soundtrack. Just the quiet decision that staying in bed wouldn’t erase what happened. It wouldn't change that she’d walked in on Cole with another woman, not even two weeks after their anniversary. Or that he’d looked more irritated than ashamed, muttering something about how she “never made time for him anyway.”
Ava made coffee. It tasted like heartbreak.
But she drank it anyway.
She posted nothing. Texted no one. Her phone buzzed with group chats that suddenly felt irrelevant. She opened her i********: app once—just to delete it. And when it was gone, she felt a strange kind of peace, like cutting a cord that had been wrapped too tight around her throat.
Ghost mode: activated.
She didn’t tell anyone where she was going. She booked a short-term rental downtown, somewhere with high ceilings and ugly wallpaper and zero memories. She shoved her essentials in a suitcase and left everything else—the decor, the matching towels, the fake plants she once thought made the apartment feel “lived in.” All of it belonged to the version of her that had tolerated being dimmed.
Now, she needed fluorescent honesty.
Her first stop wasn’t the grocery store or her job or even her mom’s house. It was a hardware store, where she bought three gallons of white paint, a tarp, and enough rollers to feel like she was prepping for war.
The art studio had been her father’s once—a dusty room above the garage that smelled like oil and neglect. It was where she first learned to mix colors, how to tilt the brush to make shadows look soft, how to see light even in grayscale. After he passed, Ava never went back.
Until now.
She pushed the door open. It groaned in protest. Dust danced in the light slicing through the cracked window. It looked forgotten. Just like she had felt.
Perfect.
She spent the entire afternoon painting the walls white, covering decades of faded sketches and nicotine stains. The physical act of it—rolling, wiping, breathing through the fumes—felt like therapy. She was erasing ghosts. Making room.
When her arm ached and the last drop of paint had dried, Ava sank onto the floor in her paint-splattered leggings and looked around.
It was still rough. Still imperfect. But it was hers.
The next few days blurred into one long montage of crying in the shower, dancing in the kitchen, falling asleep to old indie playlists, and saying no without guilt. Ava quit her job—a marketing position that had drained her soul while pretending to care about “work-life balance.” She left a single-line resignation email.
Subject: I’m done.
No explanation. No two weeks’ notice. No apologies.
She didn’t realize how much weight she’d carried until it wasn’t strapped to her back anymore.
On the fifth day, she saw her reflection in the mirror and didn’t recognize the woman staring back. Not because she looked broken. But because she looked honest.
Her hair was pulled into a messy bun that would’ve made past-Ava cringe. Her nails were chipped. Her face bare.
But her eyes—they were clear.
Ava whispered to the mirror, “Hey. I think I like you.”
It wasn’t all triumph and closure. Healing came in waves. One night, while going through an old box of photos, she found a note from Cole—written during their first year together.
“You’re too good for me. But I’m going to spend forever proving I’m good enough for you.”
She laughed. Not a bitter laugh. A tired one.
“Forever lasted, what, three years and a side piece?”
She crumpled the note, threw it into the trash, then emptied the whole bin. There was no nostalgia in betrayal. No wisdom in romanticizing red flags.
The next day, she started therapy.
Her therapist, Karina, was calm in the way Ava needed—not soft, not pushy. Just real.
“The way you talk about him,” Karina said during their first session, “sounds like you believed hurting you was your fault.”
Ava’s throat tightened.
“It wasn’t,” Karina said simply. “That shame isn’t yours to carry.”
Ava left that session and cried in her car for twenty minutes.
But she came back the next week.
One night, weeks later, Ava wandered into a bar she’d never been to before. She wasn’t looking for anyone. She just didn’t want to be alone with her thoughts. The kind of thoughts that crept up late—What if he was right about me? What if I was the problem?
The bar was dimly lit, soft jazz humming through the speakers, and the bartender was... definitely not forgettable.
He was tall, sun-kissed, with arms that said he moved furniture for fun and eyes that sparkled like mischief was his love language. His name tag read “Luca.”
“First time here?” he asked, handing her a menu.
“Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve got that ‘I’m new to my single era’ glow.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That a pickup line?”
“Nah.” He grinned. “It’s an observation. And a compliment. And maybe a tiny bit of flirting.”
Ava smirked. It felt foreign on her face. But good.
“Vodka soda. Extra lime. And something that doesn’t taste like regret.”
He laughed. “Coming right up.”
Luca became her unexpected oasis. She didn’t tell him anything personal. Not about Cole. Not about the crying fits or therapy or the way she sometimes stared at walls for hours.
But Luca had a way of making silence feel safe. Like she didn’t have to perform or explain.
They talked about favorite movies, conspiracy theories, and which fries were the best shape. They argued over pineapple on pizza and ranked the worst breakup songs.
When she finally left, he called after her, “Same time tomorrow?”
She paused at the door.
“Maybe,” she said. “We’ll see if I feel like being mysterious.”
By the end of the month, Ava had built a new routine. Morning runs that turned into slow walks. Therapy twice a week. Afternoon painting. Nighttime journaling. And the occasional drop-in at the bar—where Luca started to remember her drink without asking and sneak her fries when the kitchen was slow.
The past version of her—the one who measured her worth by Cole’s mood swings—was fading like a bad bruise.
She still had moments of panic. Like when she saw a car that looked like his. Or a photo on her timeline she forgot to archive. Or the sharp voice in her head that whispered, “You’ll never really escape him.”
But each time, she reminded herself—he didn’t break her. He just revealed where she needed to heal.
Then came the message.
An unknown number. Just a few words.
“You think you won. But you don’t know everything.”
She stared at the screen, her chest tight.
Blocked. Deleted. Done.
Except… she couldn’t shake it.
That night, she stayed awake, replaying the message in her mind. What did it mean? Just another mind game? A desperate attempt to bait her?
Or something else?
She turned to her journal and wrote:
He doesn’t get to live rent-free in my mind. Not anymore. But if there’s more truth to find—then maybe my healing has just begun.
She closed the journal.
And smiled.
- Writer
