By Boxes, Biryani, & Beginning Again.
There’s no guidebook for leaving the life you built. I started by saying it out loud.
Monday, 11:47 p.m.
I say it out loud tonight. I’m moving out.
The sentence hovers in the air like smoke I can’t swallow back. My cats freeze mid-lick, sensing something serious. The room feels different now. Heavier. I half-expect the ceiling fan to stop spinning out of respect.
I thought I would cry, but instead I just sit there, cross-legged on the bed, staring at the laundry I’ve been pretending doesn’t exist. I pull out my phone and start googling “Dubai movers for small apartments.” Every link looks confusing, expensive, and suspiciously cheerful. I close the tab. Too much for tonight.
The air smells faintly of vanilla and leftover dinner. I tell my cats, “It’s just us now.” One yawns. The other jumps off the bed. Typical.
I don’t feel free yet. Just tired. But somewhere under the fatigue, I sense something loosening. Maybe it’s my chest. Maybe it’s the grip I’ve had on a version of life that doesn’t fit anymore.
Tuesday, 9:00 a.m.
At work, I smile like I didn’t decide to detonate my life last night. My inbox is full, and my brain is empty. Between emails and meetings, I sneak glances at apartment listings, pretending it’s research. Every flat looks either haunted or aggressively beige.
I start a list on my Notes app:
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Find movers
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Call real estate agent
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Figure out how to pack an entire life without falling apart
I stare at the list for fifteen minutes, then reward myself by doing absolutely nothing.
By noon, I’m messaging a friend for recommendations. She sends me three contacts and a voice note saying, “You’ve got this, babe.” I don’t feel like I do. I haven’t even told my mom yet.
My sister calls that evening. I tell her I’m moving, expecting shock or concern. Instead, she says, “Okay. I’m coming with you.” Just like that. No hesitation. My chest loosens a little.
Wednesday, 8:45 p.m.
Work was chaos. Emails, calls, more emails. I half-listened, half-spiralled. I’m becoming an expert at looking composed while my brain plays sad indie songs.
By evening, I finally call a few movers. Every guy sounds like he’s multitasking. “Sister, you tell me how many boxes?” he asks. I look around my room, trying to count my life. Ten? Twenty? Forty? What number feels appropriate for packing up a marriage?
He says they’ll come tomorrow to assess. I say okay, like this is all normal. Later, I walk around the apartment, brushing my fingers along the dining table where we planned our first trip to Thailand, the couch where we argued about what to watch. Everything feels like an artefact.
Thursday, 11:00 p.m.
The movers confirmed for Saturday. I spent the day at work on autopilot, nodding through meetings while secretly scrolling through cardboard box prices on my phone.
After dinner, I start packing with my sister. She folds clothes while I spiral over sentimental junk. The air fryer? Mine. The blackout curtains? His. The photos in frames? I can’t bear to take a single memory of us in my journey forward.
At one point, I start crying over a frying pan. Not because I love it, but because I remember the night we bought it, giddy, sharing IKEA meatballs, laughing about how grown-up we felt. My sister hands me tissues without saying a word. The cats watch me sob like, … no treats tonight?
Friday, 2:30 p.m.
At work, I can’t focus. My mind keeps drifting back to the half-packed apartment. My team jokes around about weekend plans. I smile, pretending I have some.
By evening, my sister and I are knee-deep in bubble wrap and exhaustion. She keeps saying, “We’ll laugh about this one day.” I tell her it better be soon.
When I call my mom, she doesn’t say “I told you so.” She just asks if I’ve eaten. I haven’t. I tell her I will. I won’t.
I walk through every room when we’re done, fingertips tracing doorframes, counting how many more nights I’ll sleep here. The house feels smaller now, or maybe I finally see it clearly.
Saturday, 10:45 a.m.
My first morning off. I should be sleeping in, but my brain is already wide awake, replaying mental to-do lists. The movers are supposed to come soon. I grab a cold coffee from the fridge and stand by the window, staring at what’s left of my life in piles.
My sister puts on music, something upbeat to fill the silence. We move around like we’ve done this before, packing boxes and labeling them in messy handwriting.
When the movers arrive, late of course, I put on my calmest “I’ve got this” face. I don’t. My cats hide under the bed. I want to join them.
By afternoon, boxes are stacked like uneven towers. I direct strangers through rooms that used to be ours. Every sound feels amplified: the tape being ripped, the thud of furniture, my own heartbeat.
When they carry out the last box, I feel something unspool in my chest. My sister squeezes my hand. I walk through every room once more. Empty spaces echo louder than arguments ever did.
Keys in hand, I turn to lock the door. My fingers hesitate. Then I do it. The click sounds final.
Driving away, we keep glancing at the rearview mirror, as if we’ll catch a glimpse of our old selves waving goodbye.
Sunday, 10:03 p.m.
New apartment. New silence.
My sister and I eat takeout biryani cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by boxes. The raita spills on my jeans. So much for my big, cinematic new beginning. Empowerment era, but make it clumsy.
We don’t say much, just pass the biryani box back and forth, our cats weaving between us. The candle on the floor flickers like it’s cheering us on.
I scroll through my phone, resisting the urge to text him. I don’t. Instead, I feed the cats and take a deep breath. The apartment still smells like cardboard and fresh paint, but it’s ours.
I sit there, watching the flame, thinking about how endings rarely feel brave when they happen. But this, right now, feels like the tiniest beginning.
