Running into you

Chapter 1

✦✧ Sage ✦✧

By the time I pulled into the apartment complex, the sky was already dimming, the kind that hinted at winter without fully committing to it. My car was packed tight, boxes in the backseat, a suitcase in the trunk, my life reduced to what I could carry without breaking down.

I parked and sat there for a moment longer than necessary, hands resting on the steering wheel. New city, fresh start.

That was the plan, anyway.

The building itself was modest. Three floors, beige walls, clean lines. Not flashy, not depressing either.

I stepped out of the car and the cold hit immediately, sharp against my cheeks. Late November had a way of reminding you that warmth was temporary.

The stairwell smelled faintly of detergent and pine-scented cleaner. I unlocked the door and pushed it open.

My apartment was on the second floor, small but clean. It had neutral walls, hardwood floors, a narrow kitchen tucked neatly to one side, a single window in the living area that overlooked the parking lot, already glowing with headlights and soft yellow lamps.

It wasn’t much but it was mine.

I dropped my keys on the counter and exhaled, like I’d been holding my breath for months without realizing it.

This wasn’t exactly how I imagined my life looking at twenty-three. But I wasn’t here to imagine anymore. I was here to rebuild quietly, carefully and on my own terms.

I glanced around again, already mentally arranging furniture I didn’t own yet, routines I hadn’t formed yet, mornings that didn’t hurt as much.

One step at a time, Sage.

᠃ ⚘᠂ ⚘ ˚ ⚘ ᠂ ⚘ ᠃

Morning found me before my alarm did, a thin wash of gray light slipping through the window and settling quietly into the room. For a moment I stayed still, staring at the ceiling, letting the unfamiliar calm sink in. There was no heavy silence, no tension waiting for me to move wrong, just quiet.

I’d missed this version of mornings.

Running had always helped me feel anchored, like if I could get my body moving early enough, my thoughts wouldn’t spiral ahead of me for the rest of the day. It was a small promise I made to myself years ago and one I hadn’t broken, not even when everything else had.

I pulled on my leggings and hoodie, tied my hair back, moved through the apartment with the ease of someone already trying to make this place feel lived in. I pulled my door open, stepped into the hallway and almost collided with someone doing the exact same thing.

The door directly opposite mine had opened at the same time, and a guy stepped out just as I did. We both paused, caught in that split second of surprise where your brain scrambles to catch up with your body. It seemed like he was dressed for a run too, hoodie, joggers, earbuds loose in his hand like he hadn’t decided whether he wanted the noise yet.

Our eyes met.

Not awkward enough to be embarrassing, not warm enough to be friendly. Just a look that said, oh, followed by a quiet awareness settling in. I registered height, broad shoulders, the fact that he looked annoyingly awake for this hour. I wondered if he was new too or if I was the only one still trying to find my footing here.

Neither of us said anything.

We turned toward the stairwell at the same time, falling into step without meaning to. Our footsteps echoed softly as we went down, the sound filling the space that conversation might have occupied.

At the bottom of the stairs, we slowed, instinctively, like we both knew this was where the shared moment ended.

He went left, I went right.

There were no glances back or hesitation.

The run cleared my head the way it always did, each step loosening something tight inside my chest. By the time I returned, warmth had replaced the chill in my limbs.

The hallway was empty when I came back, his door closed, the building returned to its stillness like nothing had happened.

I let myself into my apartment and leaned against the door for a second, exhaling.

It was ridiculous to think about a stranger I hadn’t even spoken to. I wasn’t here for distractions or coincidences or anything that might complicate the fragile balance I was trying to build.

I pushed off the door and headed for the shower, grounding myself in the familiar routine.

By the time I finished showering and pulled on fresh clothes, my phone buzzed from the counter, the screen lighting up with a notification I’d been half-expecting all morning.

Your delivery is arriving in five minutes.

I stared at it, then slowly scanned the apartment again, suddenly more aware of how empty it still was. I didn’t hate it, though. It felt like a blank page instead of a reminder of everything I’d lost.

The blow-up mattress sat obediently in the corner of the bedroom, deflated and folded now, having done its job the night before with all the enthusiasm of something that knew it was temporary.

I wandered toward the window just in time to see a large white truck turning into the parking lot. I grabbed my keys and headed downstairs just as the truck rolled into the lot, very much announcing itself as the thing that was about to turn my quiet morning into organized chaos. One of the movers hopped out, tablet in hand, already scanning the building like he was mentally mapping out his route.

“Sage Ellis” I said when he asked, confirming my name and showing him the delivery code on my phone like proof that yes, I was indeed the person who had ordered an entire apartment’s worth of furniture to be carried up two flights of stairs.

They followed me inside, and I led the way up, unlocking my door and stepping aside as everything began filling the space.

What they brought up seemed like my whole life. A couch I refused to part with because it had survived two apartments and one heartbreak. A narrow bookshelf with a dented corner that I kept meaning to replace and never did. A mattress still wrapped in plastic, a small dining table, and a handful of boxes that rattled when moved because I’d packed them in a hurry and labeled almost none of them properly. I helped where I could, holding doors, pointing vaguely and saying things like “maybe over there?” while secretly knowing I’d move everything again later. When they finally left, the apartment felt fuller but messier.

There was something deeply satisfying about watching it all come together. This wasn’t borrowed space or temporary comfort. This was something I chose, paid for, planned, even if the planning happened in the quiet aftermath of things I didn’t plan at all. This was what remained after all the letting go, after the selling and the donating and the quiet decisions about what I didn’t need to carry with me anymore.

I sank down onto the floor with my back against the couch as I scanned the room with a small, tired smile.

The smile faded when my stomach growled loudly. I walked to the kitchen out of habit and stared at the empty shelves for a solid ten seconds before remembering that I did not, in fact, own food yet.

Right. Groceries. Another exciting chapter in my new life.

The supermarket was louder than I expected, full of half-formed holiday cheer and carts clanking against each other. I moved slowly, picking up basics as I went. Bread. Eggs. Pasta. Coffee because I wasn’t ready to be brave without it. A set of dish towels that were technically unnecessary but made the cart feel more legitimate. A small pine-scented candle I didn’t need but wanted anyway.

I paused in the home aisle longer than necessary, debating between mismatched plates and a cheap set that promised uniformity. In the end, I chose the mismatched ones.

I was done forcing things to look perfect.

By the time I got back, arms full and fingers aching, the apartment greeted me differently. I unloaded groceries, lining things up in cabinets, wiping down the counter even though no one had touched it yet.

Unpacking came next, books stacked without thinking about order, couch shifted an inch at a time until it felt correct, mattress dragged into the bedroom where it would stay on the floor for now because perfection was overrated and bed frames could wait.

The unlabeled box was the last thing I opened and I regretted it immediately.

Photos. Small keepsakes. A scarf I hadn’t worn in months. A framed picture I had flipped face-down, my chest tightening before I could stop it.

Not today.

I closed the box and shoved it under the bookshelf. I stood there for a few seconds longer than necessary, staring at the box like it might suddenly apologize for existing. It didn’t. Of course it didn’t. I nudged it more with my foot, not aggressively, just enough to put it out of my direct line of sight, because there was a difference between ignoring something forever and simply deciding it wasn’t getting my attention tonight.

I straightened and turned toward the kitchen, taking in the very real fact that while I now owned groceries, that did not automatically mean I had the energy to turn them into an actual meal. Cooking required effort, thought, and standing upright longer than my body was currently interested in, and suddenly the idea of pasta felt like a personal attack.

I opened one of the cabinets, stared inside like inspiration might be hiding there, then closed it again.

Yeah. No.

I pulled my phone out and ordered food without guilt, because I’d already made enough responsible decisions for one day and this didn’t need to be another one. While I waited, I flopped onto the couch and scrolled through my messages, replying to my sister first because I knew if I didn’t, she’d assume I’d been kidn*pped within city limits.

I made it, I typed. Apartment’s cute. I survived the stairs. No injuries. Yet.

Her reply came almost immediately, full of heart emojis and unnecessary concern, which made me smile despite myself. I sent her a quick picture of the living room — strategically angled, of course — and promised a proper call later.

Food arrived not long after, and I ate straight from the container, legs tucked beneath me, scrolling aimlessly through my phone while I chewed. Social media was its usual mix of people doing too much and people pretending they weren’t, and for once, it didn’t bother me. I just scrolled until it stopped being interesting and put my phone down again.

I shifted against the couch cushions, feeling the exhaustion finally catch up with me.

If nothing else, at least I knew I’d sleep.