Zachary’s POV
The decision crystallizes slowly over days of sleepless nights and productive days that feel increasingly hollow.
Three a.m. finds me staring at spreadsheets that blur into meaningless numbers, my mind circling the same truth I've been avoiding since I spoke her name in another woman's bed. I know what I want. Have known since that moment when Mariam's face shifted from pleasure to hurt and I watched the last pretense of moving on shatter against truth I couldn't deny.
The question isn't what I want.
The question is what I'm willing to do about it.
Distance was supposed to protect us both. Was supposed to let Violet build a life uncomplicated by my presence, let me focus on the career that demands everything I have. Instead, distance has become a wound neither of us knows how to heal—a slow bleed I've been pretending I can survive.
Thursday night, I open my laptop with the intention of reviewing quarterly projections. Instead, my fingers type something else entirely: apartments near Columbia University.
I tell myself I'm just looking. Just exploring options. Just gathering information the way I gather information about everything—methodical, strategic, devoid of emotional investment.
The lie tastes familiar. I've gotten good at lying to myself about Violet.
Friday, the search continues. I filter by distance, by amenities, by the particular anonymity that would allow a Manhattan executive to maintain a presence without drawing attention. Each listing I bookmark feels like another step toward something I'm not ready to name.
Saturday morning, I should be reviewing the Henderson account analysis. Instead, I'm driving toward a building I found at two a.m., twenty minutes from her university, telling myself this is reconnaissance rather than commitment.
The leasing agent meets me in the lobby with the particular enthusiasm of someone who works on commission. She's young, polished, trained to read buyers and tell them what they want to hear.
"Mr. Cooper." She extends her hand with practiced warmth. "I'm Jessica. We spoke on the phone."
"Thank you for meeting me on short notice." I shake her hand and glance around the lobby—modern, anonymous, exactly the kind of place where someone could exist without explanation.
"Of course. The unit you inquired about is on the fourth floor." She gestures toward the elevator. "Twelve hundred square feet, one bedroom, recently renovated. The building has excellent security and a twenty-four-hour concierge."
"How far is the university from here?"
"Columbia?" She presses the elevator button. "About twenty minutes by car. Fifteen if traffic cooperates, which it rarely does."
The number settles into my chest like confirmation. Close enough to matter. Far enough to maintain the pretense of coincidence.
The apartment itself is exactly what the listing promised—clean lines, neutral colors, the particular emptiness of space that's never been lived in. Afternoon light cuts through bare windows, illuminating hardwood floors and white walls and the potential dressed as square footage.
"The previous tenant relocated for work," Jessica explains, walking me through the kitchen. "Granite countertops, stainless appliances, gas range. The bedroom has a walk-in closet and an en-suite bathroom."
I nod at the appropriate moments, but I'm not cataloging amenities. I'm standing in the empty living room asking myself what I'm actually doing here.
"The lease terms are quite reasonable." Jessica hands me a folder. "Six months minimum, with option to extend. First and last month's deposit, standard credit check."
"Six months." I turn the words over in my mouth. Half a year of proximity. Half a year of existing in Violet's orbit without demanding more than she's ready to give.
"Is the location important for work?" Jessica asks, the question carrying the particular curiosity of someone trying to understand a client's motivation.
"Something like that."
She doesn't press. Just shows me the bedroom, the bathroom, the closet space I don't need. I follow her through rooms that echo with emptiness while my mind runs calculations that have nothing to do with rent.
If I sign this lease, I'm admitting something I've spent months denying. I'm not moving on. I'm not building distance. I'm doing the opposite—closing the gap between us because the alternative has become unbearable.
"Take your time looking around," Jessica says, stepping into the hallway. "I'll give you a moment."
Alone in the empty living room, I let the truth settle.
I'm not looking for an apartment. I'm looking for proximity. For a way to exist near her without demanding more than she's ready to give. For the possibility that distance isn't the answer—that maybe showing up matters more than stepping back.
The afternoon light shifts across bare walls, and I think about Violet's face when she told me wanting wasn't the same as belonging. The certainty in her voice. The way she walked away, like leaving was easier than staying.
She was wrong. Leaving was never easy. For either of us.
I pull out my phone and dial Jessica's number. She answers from the hallway, surprise coloring her professional tone.
"I'll take it." The words leave my mouth before I can talk myself out of them. "The six-month lease. I can sign today."
"Wonderful." Her enthusiasm is genuine now. "I'll prepare the paperwork."
The signing takes thirty minutes—initials and signatures and the particular bureaucracy of committing to a decision I'm not sure I understand. When it's done, Jessica hands me the keys with congratulations I don't deserve.
"Welcome to the building, Mr. Cooper."
I thank her and walk back to my car with keys that feel heavier than metal should.
Driving back to Manhattan, I don't know if what I've done is romantic or desperate. Possibly both. Probably both. The city rises before me, familiar and foreign, while I catalog the ways this decision could destroy everything—my career, my dignity, whatever fragile equilibrium I've managed to construct since she left.
But beneath the fear, something else surfaces. Something that feels like forward motion instead of survival.
For the first time since Violet left my bed telling me wanting wasn't the same as belonging, I feel like I'm moving toward something instead of just surviving its absence.
The apartment will sit empty until I figure out what proximity actually means. Until I decide whether showing up is courage or cowardice dressed in romantic justification.
But it exists now. Twenty minutes from her campus. A bridge I built without knowing what waits on the other side.
That has to count for something.
Even if I'm not sure what.