He didn’t argue. Didn’t cry. Just nodded faintly, took the painkillers prescribed, and walked out without asking questions. The sunlight outside felt too bright, too indifferent. By the time he got home, the paper bag in his hand was crumpled, and the ache in his side had returned with a vengeance.
The apartment looked different in daylight. He looked around and realized—he’d built nothing. No house, no savings, not even a car to call his own. Every paycheck had evaporated into music, liquor, and late nights. He hadn’t prepared for a future because he never expected to need one. But now, the bill had arrived—$50,000 and no escape.
Justin sat there for hours, the silence unspooling like a reel of tape. He didn’t reach for a drink as his head was already swimming with all the past decisions that had led him to this moment. And despite his best effort, came a name that he had buried in the dark crevices of his mind for decades.
At twenty-one, Justin had dropped out of community college and fled his small-town life—and his violent father—for the chaos of New York. He drowned in parties, noise, and strangers’ couches, chasing distraction over direction. One night, in the blur of another rooftop party, he saw Lucy—still, quiet, luminous.