(Lizzy's POV)
The apartment felt larger after they left.
Not emptier just quieter, like the walls themselves were waiting to see what we would do next. I kept expecting my phone to buzz with a message. An apology. A reprimand. Something to tell me how to feel.
Nothing came.
Funmi moved through the space slowly, methodically, as if she were relearning where things belonged. She washed the cups they hadn't used. Folded a blanket that didn't need folding. Control, I realized, was her way of calming down.
I sat on the couch, guilt pressing against my ribs.
"I think I ruined everything," I said softly.
Funmi paused, her back still to me. "You didn't."
"They came because of me," I continued. "Because I changed. Because I stopped being… easy."
She turned then, eyes tired but steady. "Lizzy, they came because the system stopped working for them. Not because you broke it."
That didn't erase the guilt but it softened it.
That night, relief came in waves. Small ones. Dangerous ones. The kind that made me feel almost light, followed immediately by shame for feeling that way at all.
How could relief coexist with loss?
I thought of our mother's face when Funmi said the distance would stay. The shock. The hurt. I hated that I had caused pain.
But I hated more the years I had spent causing pain to myself.
The next few days passed strangely. Classes. Meals. Laughter that surprised me. Sadness that arrived without warning. Healing, I was learning, didn't ask permission before changing shape.
One afternoon, Funmi sat beside me on my bed.
"I feel selfish," she admitted. "And relieved. And angry. And free. All at once."
I nodded. "Me too."
She let out a shaky laugh. "I don't know which feeling is the right one."
"Maybe none of them are wrong," I said.
That idea settled between us gently.
Later that evening, I went for a walk alone. The campus was alive with movement students rushing, talking, living. For the first time, I didn't feel like I was watching life from behind glass.
I ran into Ben near the library steps.
"Hey," he said, careful, like he always was.
"Hey."
He studied my face. "You look… lighter. And heavier. At the same time."
I smiled despite myself. "That might be the most accurate description of me right now."
We walked for a bit, not talking about family, not talking about pain. Just existing side by side.
And for the first time, I realized something important.
Choosing myself didn't mean I had to carry the consequences alone.
As I walked back home later, guilt still followed me but it no longer led.
Relief did.
Quiet. Unapologetic. Earned.