It had been four days since the blowup. Since I walked in on my ex-best friend and my ex-boyfriend and found out, in the worst possible way, what they really thought of me.
I was trying to be a better person. A calmer one. Maybe someone who didn’t get into screaming matches with the people who used to know her best. Someone who didn’t cling to the idea of community after losing the only two people she thought she could count on. Someone who didn’t stress-bake muffins on a Sunday morning just to feel less alone.
But somehow 24 apple-cinnamon muffins ended up on my counter.
They weren’t great—one batch came out sunken and the others overbaked—but I boxed them up anyway and knocked on the door of the apartment next to mine. I’d seen the guy in passing, always with his hoodie up and a mask
