The room looked emptier than ever, like it had already said goodbye before either of them did.Brian sat at the same old dining table across from Kate. Dust caught in the soft evening light coming through the blinds.
"Brian," she began, voice trembling, "you don't have to go. This is your home."
His rough hands reached across the table and held hers. "It's the only thing that feels right, Kate."
Her eyes watered. "So you're really leaving me? We were supposed to get married!"
Brian stared down at their joined hands. "You know i want to be with you. But what's in my head—what's been haunting me—it's still there. I never told you the whole story, did I?"
Kate hesitated, then asked quietly, "About your dad?"
He nodded, leaning back in his chair. "When I was a kid, I probably said ten words a day to him, tops. Right before he died, I remember him sitting with Mom at the table, talking about wanting to move somewhere warm. Mom didn't like the idea—she said we couldn't afford it. But he promised he'd take us, just once, during the summer."
He paused, the memory catching in his throat. "I guess I just want to…"
"....want to be like Mr. Dixon." Kate finished for him softly.
Brian's lips pressed into a thin line. "Yeah."
She reached out, rubbing his back gently. "If that's what helps you breathe again… then I'll let you go." He met her eyes, a faint nod replacing the words thank you.
Kate leaned forward and kissed him on the lips — tender, but sad. "Be seeing you, Brian."
She stood, grabbed her purse, and walked out the door.The silence that followed felt louder than anything else.
Brian sat still for a moment, then looked toward the family photo on the couch — the one he'd thrown a bottle at weeks ago. He got up, picked it up carefully, and pulled the picture from its frame.
The image showed three people smiling on a boat — his father, his mother, and a bright-eyed kid sitting between them. Brian tore it into three pieces: father, mother, and child.
"I hate you, Brian," he muttered, tossing the scrap of his own face to the floor.
The pieces of his parents he folded neatly, slipping them into his worn leather wallet.
By sunset, the room was stripped bare. His suitcase sat by the door. On the couch, he left an envelope with a few folded bills and a short note scrawled in his rough handwriting.
To Mrs. Sullivan,
I've spoken with the building staff about moving out. 'll be spending the summer in Phoenix to clear my head. Thank you for this place — for taking good care, for all the help, and for everything you did for Mom, too.
Enclosed is $300 for my final month.
With regards, Mr. Brian W. Dixon