Chapter 5 - The Fallout Begins
By Monday morning, the fallout had officially begun.
I was sitting at my small wooden desk in my apartment, reviewing a graphic design proof for a freelance client, when my phone buzzed on the desk surface.
It wasn't a ring. It was a frantic, vibrating series of rapid-fire text message notifications that made the phone skitter across the mousepad.
Victoria: MAYA. ANSWER YOUR PHONE.
Victoria: What did you and Aunt Helen do??
Victoria: Mr. Henderson just called me. He said my rent is going up to the full amount starting next month because you canceled the co-pay agreement. Are you insane??
Victoria: Do you realize I signed a year lease extension based on our arrangement?! I can't afford this alone!
I stared at the screen, my heart rate steady, my fingers resting lightly on the keyboard.
For the first time in my life, I didn't feel an immediate surge of panic or an instinctive urge to fix it. I didn't draft a long, apologetic text explaining my financial situation or offering a compromise.
I simply picked up the phone, tapped my thumb against the screen, and selected Block Contact.
A small pop-up appeared: Are you sure you want to block Victoria Vance? You will no longer receive calls or messages from this contact.
I tapped Confirm.
The screen went silent. The frantic buzzing stopped. The room felt preternaturally quiet, save for the hum of my laptop fan and the distant chirping of sparrows outside my window.
Ten minutes later, my phone buzzed again.
Chloe: Hey Maya, it’s Chloe. Victoria is an absolute wreck right now and she’s crying in the bathroom. Can you please just talk to her? You’re being super unreasonable about this.
I stared at that message for three seconds. Then I tapped Block Contact again.
Becca: Seriously Maya? Cutting her off right before her engagement party? What is wrong with you?
Blocked.
It felt like shedding a winter coat that had been soaked through with freezing rain for six solid years—heavy, damp, and miserable. Taking it off didn't make me warm instantly, but the sudden absence of the dead weight was miraculous.
That evening, I did something I hadn't done on a Monday night since I was twenty-two years old: I went to a pottery class down the street.
I had signed up for it eight months ago, paid the fee, and then canceled every single week because Victoria needed help moving a couch, or needed someone to talk her down from a panic attack because Brad didn't text her back within twenty minutes.
Standing over the spinning pottery wheel, my hands covered in wet grey clay, I watched the form rise and twist under my fingers. It wasn't perfect. The walls were uneven, the rim was slightly lopsided, and it didn't look like anything you'd find in a high-end boutique.
May you like
But it was mine. Every clumsy curve and lopsided edge belonged entirely to me, created with my own time, my own energy, and my own hands.
When I walked home under the cool evening air, my phone stayed silent in my coat pocket. And for the first time in six years, that silence didn't feel like abandonment. It felt like peace.
