Chapter 6: Breaking Point

The place was unlivable—mold already creeping up the baseboards, the air thick with the smell of dirty water and wet concrete. Every hotel nearby was either full or charging triple. Every call, the front desk quoted four hundred a night, like it was nothing.

So we ended up hunched in a hotel lobby, backs to the wall, watching people rush by with suitcases and soggy Cubs hats. Umbrellas dripped puddles on the tile, the L train rattled overhead, and the world felt like it was moving on without us.

A couple girls nearby chatted, scrolling their phones.

“Damn, why can’t a rich guy just fall for me and hand me a million?”

“Don’t jinx it—did you see what’s trending? Lauren Miller’s fiancé just donated ten million, like it was pocket change.”

“He even donated under both their names. That’s real love.”

Next to me, Jason tensed. Then, like a kid looking for sympathy, he leaned close and whined in my ear, “Babe, four hundred is a lot. Why don’t we just stay here?”

He shivered against my back—maybe from cold, maybe nerves. It was late autumn, and he’d given me his jacket, leaving himself in a damp T-shirt.

Once, I would’ve melted. Would’ve offered to blow my paycheck just to keep him warm. Now, I pinched his thigh hard enough to make him flinch.

“You brought this on yourself. You deserve it.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter.

“If you were like someone’s fiancé, able to donate ten million without blinking, would I still be living like this?”

As soon as I said it, a fit of coughing doubled me over.

Jason’s hand slid up and down my back, gentle, steadying me until I caught my breath.

When I finally stopped, he leaned in, his voice rough in my ear.

“I get it. You think I’m too poor.”

“It’s my fault. I can’t give you a big house, made you sick, made you shiver in the cold, can’t even find a place to stay—it’s all my fault…”

I thought I was all cried out. Thought my tears had dried up somewhere between the subway and our ruined apartment.

But hearing him say that—like he truly believed he’d failed me, like he actually cared—something in me cracked. My eyes stung, throat tight.

Just like always, he watched me struggle, watched me sacrifice, watched me choose him again and again, even when it hurt.

He’d offer pretty words—soft, empty things. Maybe he liked it this way.

“Yes, it’s all your fault.”

My voice was ice.

Jason went silent, mouth open, shoulders hunched.

Right—in the past, whenever he took the blame, I’d always cave. I’d always reached out to reassure him.

“Don’t blame yourself. I feel sorry for you, I really do. Understand?”

But not tonight. Not anymore.

I turned, met his eyes, and said, slow and clear,

“Or what? Your salary is two grand a month. You can’t even afford a bathroom in Chicago. Do you want to waste my whole life?”

“Did you really think I wanted to live in a rented apartment with you forever?”

Jason’s face went slack, stunned. It took him a minute, then he forced a weak, uncertain smile, hand halfway raised like he might reach for me but thought better of it.

“I… I can work overtime—”

I cut him off, sharp. “Just messing with you.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw his shoulders drop, all the tension draining out. His defeat was plain. His shoulders slumped, and for once, I let him feel the weight of it. Maybe this time, he’d finally get it—or maybe it was already too late.