ARIA
I didn't think it would hurt this much.
I told myself I was ready. I told myself it was "just a place." Four walls, one creaky bed, a fridge with more air than food, and a closet that smelled like detergent and memories.
But as I stood in the middle of the living room, watching strangers pack my life into boxes, something inside me cracked.
The moving crew Dalton had sent moved quickly too quickly. Efficient, quiet, professional. They didn't touch anything without asking; they didn't look around like they were judging me. They just worked.
Maybe that made it worse.
Because all I saw was how small my life actually was.
One man picked up my father's old radio the one he repaired a dozen times because "music sounds better when it survives something."
Another lifted the tiny wooden box where I kept his watch.
Someone else folded my thrift-store clothes like they mattered.
But everything else the chipped plates, the mismatched pans, the couch bought secondhand from a neighbor who smoked too much it all went into a pile labeled:
TO SELL
That pile was bigger than the one labeled:
KEEP
My throat burned.
This was my home. My dad's home. Our last place together. I slept on that bed after he passed. I cried on that couch. I cooked his last meals in that tiny kitchen. Every corner had a memory, even the ugly ones.
And now it was disappearing.
Piece by piece.
Box by box.
Like it had never belonged to us at all.
I stepped into my bedroom or what used to be my bedroom. The sheets were gone. The dresser was empty. The little portable fan my dad always teased me about ("You sleep like a furnace, Aria") was unplugged, ready to be carried away.
My fingers grazed the wall where his photo used to hang. I took it down earlier, right before the crew arrived. It left a rectangle of lighter paint, like the wall remembered him too.
My knees went weak.
I sat on the bare mattress frame and let myself break for a minute. Just one. I pressed my palm to my mouth, trying to keep the sobs quiet, but they slipped out anyway shaky, ugly, real.
I didn't want the movers to hear.
I didn't want Dalton to hear, either.
He was standing outside in the hallway, talking quietly to Marcus about something work-related. I could tell from his tone clipped, calm, focused that he had flipped into his CEO mode.
Good.
It meant he wasn't watching me.
I wiped my face and stood.
Time to finish this.
An hour later, a woman from the building came to look at the furniture I'd listed for sale. She was friendly, talkative, and completely unaware that each item she pointed to felt like she was tapping on my ribs.
"How much for the table?"
"Two thousand," I said automatically.
She blinked. "Aria… the legs wobble."
"Oh. Right. Five hundred."
She bought it.
She even bought my dad's old desk the one with the carved initials in the corner from when he tried to teach me math.
I couldn't watch her carry it out. I turned away and focused on folding the last of my clothes.
By the time the apartment was empty, my chest felt hollow. Like someone had scooped out my insides and left nothing but air.
This place wasn't perfect.
It wasn't pretty.
It wasn't rich.
But it was mine.
Mine and Dad's.
Now it was just… gone.
The Last Walk Through
The movers left.
The buyer left.
Even Marcus stepped outside to take a phone call.
Only Dalton remained.
He didn't follow me around. He didn't hover. He just stood near the door, hands in his pockets, watching me with that unreadable look he always wore like he was collecting data he didn't know what to do with.
I walked room to room one last time.
The kitchen felt too small now.
The bathroom smelled like lemon cleaner.
The living room echoed with every step.
And the bedroom…
I couldn't step inside again.
I stood in the doorway and whispered, "Bye, Dad."
I don't know if I said it out loud or just in my head.
Either way, it felt final.
When I stepped back into the living room, Dalton straightened.
"You ready?" he asked softly.
I nodded, even though nothing about me felt ready.
The Car Ride
The car was too quiet.
Not uncomfortable quiet just the kind that makes your brain replay everything you're trying not to think about.
Dalton didn't speak until we were halfway home.
"You don't have to get rid of everything," he said.
I stared out the window. "I didn't have room to keep everything."
"You do now." His voice was calm. "My place isn't small."
"That's the problem," I said, barely above a whisper. "It's too big. I don't fit in places like that."
He glanced at me. "You live there now. So you fit."
He said it like it was simple.
Like logic solved feelings.
But I didn't answer.
I couldn't.
My throat was tight with everything I didn't want him to know the fear, the grief, the guilt of leaving my dad behind in a place that was no longer mine.
By the time we reached his house, my body felt heavy.
That Night after an awkward dinner with Dalton.
I tried to sleep.
I really did.
The bed was soft too soft.
The room was warm too warm.
The sheets smelled like lavender too calming.
Nothing felt right.
Nothing was mine.
I tossed. Turned. Kicked the blankets off. Pulled them back on. Pressed my pillow over my head.
Nothing worked.
Around 2 a.m., my body finally gave in to exhaustion, and I drifted into the kind of sleep that doesn't go deep just enough to shut your brain down.
But it didn't last.
My chest tightened first. Subtle. Like someone placed a hand on it and pushed slowly.
Then the dizziness came a slow wave, rolling up from my stomach to my head.
Then the panic.
My eyes flew open.
I sat up too fast.
The room tilted.
I pressed a hand to my forehead. "Not now… please… not now…"
I checked my blood sugar with shaking fingers.
The number flashed at me like a warning siren:
56
Low.
Too low.
I swung my legs off the bed and stood bad idea —the floor tilted again, and I grabbed the dresser to steady myself.
My breathing sped up.
My vision blurred at the edges.
My heart pounded like it was trying to escape.
I hated this.
I hated how small it made me feel.
How helpless.
How much I wished my dad were here, sitting on the edge of my bed like he used to, holding out a juice box saying:
"Slow, Aria. Breathe. You're okay. I've got you."
But he was gone.
And I was alone.
I made it halfway to the door before my knees buckled.
I caught myself on the wall.
"Okay," I whispered. "Just… get to the kitchen."
I took one step.
Then another.
The hallway felt a mile long.
By the time I reached the stairs, my breath was coming in short, sharp gasps.
I gripped the railing and forced myself down one step at a time.
One.
Two.
Three.
Halfway down, my foot slipped.
"Aria?"
His voice.
Deep. Sharp. Awake.
I barely turned my head before Dalton appeared at the bottom of the stairs, hair tousled, eyes wide, wearing only sweatpants and panic.
"What are you doing?" he asked, already moving toward me.
"I..." My voice cracked. "I'm low."
He didn't hesitate.
Didn't ask questions.
Didn't freeze like he usually did with emotions.
He took the stairs two at a time and reached me just as my legs gave out again. His arm wrapped around my waist, steadying me.
"I've got you," he murmured, and for a second, those were the exact words my father used to say.
It broke something in me.
Dalton guided me down the rest of the stairs, one hand on my back, the other gripping my arm firmly grounding me.
In the kitchen, he grabbed juice without looking. He must've memorized where everything was. He pressed the bottle to my lips like it was the only thing keeping me alive.
"Drink."
I did.
Slowly.
Shakily.
He watched my face like he was studying every flinch, every breath.
When I finally finished, he let out a breath like he'd been holding it the whole time.
"You should've called me," he said quietly.
"I didn't want to bother you."
"You were collapsing."
"I'm used to handling it alone."
His jaw tightened. "Not anymore."
My chest squeezed.
I looked away, embarrassed by the tears stinging my eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Don't apologize." His voice was calm too calm. "You scared me."
That was new.
Dalton Gray did not admit fear.
Ever.
He stayed close until my blood sugar stabilized.
He didn't touch me again, but he didn't step away either.
We sat there in silence — me on a stool, him standing in front of me, arms crossed like he was keeping himself together.
I whispered, "I miss my dad."
He closed his eyes for a moment not in annoyance, but in something like understanding.
"I know," he said softly. "I know."
And for the first time since moving in, I didn't feel out of place.
I just felt… human.
Hurting.
Healing.
Held together by a man who didn't know how to comfort someone but was trying anyway.
When he finally helped me back upstairs, he didn't say goodnight.
He just stood at my door and said, "If you need anything, call my name. Not your phone. Me."
I nodded.
And for the first time in weeks, the tightness in my chest eased.
Just a little.
Just enoug