June First

Brant, age 24

She hugs me from behind as I wash the dishes.

Lilac and ambrosia waft around me when her arms encircle my midsection, linking in front of my chest. She presses her cheek into the arc of my back and lets out a heavy sigh that warms my skin through the thin layer of cotton.

There’s nothing unusual about this hug. Nothing off. June always hugs me like this, and I’ve come to expect these hugs over the years—crave them, even.

But it’s different now. Everything is different.

So, I drop a plate.

The white porcelain slips from my grip the moment she gives me a light squeeze, and while I try to catch it, try to keep my hold on it, I try too hard.

It falls harder than it would have if I’d just gracefully let it go.

Glass splinters into three jagged pieces at the bottom of the sink, causing June to jump back.

I swallow, my jaw clenching.

A weighty pause fills the air as my fingers curl around the edge of the countertop.

“Sorry,” she whispers, fracturing the thick silence.

I turn to look at her. Her eyes are wide and glistening, her bottom lip pulled between her teeth. She stands only a foot away, wringing her hands together as she gazes up at me. Apology, longing, and grief tangle together in our clutch, each one holding a different meaning for both of us.

My eyes pan to the floor as Samantha enters the kitchen.

“What happened? I heard a crash.” Dark circles and a hollow blue stare fixate on me, then on June. “Did something break?”

Her question hangs heavy between the three of us. June visibly flinches.

Pressing forward on the edge of the counter, I close my eyes.

Something broke.

Something broke twelve days ago when I bolted from that godawful dance with blood pouring from my nose, the memory of June’s tongue still wet and hungry in my mouth and her delicious moans vibrating my skin. I booked it with tears biting at my eyes as Theo’s murderous threats still lingered in the air, his enraged fists causing my busted face to throb and tingle.

I told everyone that I’d slipped.

… and I suppose it wasn’t a lie.

I slipped.

Slipped up.

Slipped into a dark, deadly void I may never be able to climb my way out of.

I lost my footing in the worst way, and it’s the kind of fall you don’t ever recover from.

Then I ran like a coward, drunk on grief, sick with disbelief, and drove right through the scene of a grisly accident.

A man in uniform, pinned between two vehicles. Blood spattered along the hood of a wrecked car, red on red. Another man, trapped inside, shouting with anguish.

Chaos.

Catastrophe.

A nightmare that would haunt anyone who had the misfortune of witnessing it.

But the worst part?

It wasn’t just any nightmare.

It was my nightmare.

Theo was that man in uniform.

It was his blood decorating the red sedan, his body crushed between two pieces of unmerciful metal.

It was Kip trapped inside, begging for his partner to answer him.

It was me, slamming to a stop, stumbling from my own vehicle and watching my world fall apart, as my best friend, the man I’d just betrayed in the worst way, died before my eyes with forgiveness laced into his final words.

Forgiveness for me.

It was also me who buckled to the pavement when they announced his time of death, sobbing into my hands and begging for it to not be true.

9:03 P.M.

It was me who watched Kip get pulled from the wreckage, disheveled and devastated, along with a little girl and elderly woman, all alive—all destined to live another day.

Because of Theo.

Because Theo sacrificed his life for theirs.

It was me who cried harder after hearing those heart wrenching details, and it was me who carried the painful burden of breaking the news to June.

It was June who watched me approach her on the dance floor, her face turning white, a mask of panic and confusion.

It was June who collapsed against me and had a blindsiding asthma attack when the realization sunk in that her brother was gone.

It was Samantha and Andrew Bailey who rushed to the hospital.

It was Samantha and Andrew Bailey who met me in the waiting room, terrified for their daughter’s well-being, only to be informed of even graver news.

Their son was dead.

It was me who caught Samantha as she fell, a scream tearing from her lips.

It was me who consoled her as she cried. She cried for just the second time since I kidnapped baby June on that terrible night, and she cried so hard, I wondered if she’d been saving all her tears for that moment.

It was Kip who comforted Andrew, filling him in on the harrowing details as they both wept in a quiet corner of the waiting room.

It was me who held June after her diagnosis and subsequent release. We broke down together in the middle of the hospital parking lot, clinging to each other as if we were all we had left.

And it’s me, right now, a week after Theo’s funeral, knowing exactly what broke, but only having the resolve to mutter, “A plate.”

Silence festers around me, and I open my eyes.

Samantha looks haggard as she tinkers with the sleeve of her baggy sweatshirt, her eyes swimming with vacancy. A chasm of bleakness.

A gaping, missing piece.

Blinking, she clears her throat and glances at June, who’s standing idly beside me with a similar emptiness painting her face. “June, honey, maybe we can sit down and discuss colleges tomorrow. If you’re up for it.”

The dark cloud hovering over us sparks with a brewing thunderstorm as June tenses, her eyes flashing with lightning. “You want to talk about colleges?”

“Of course. You need to decide where you’re going to go.”

“No, I don’t.”

“June…”

She holds back a rainfall of tears, her hands balling into fists. A long, messy braid hangs over her shoulder, swinging against her t-shirt as she shakes her head with incredulity. “I don’t want to go to college. I don’t want to leave the town my brother took his last breath in.”

Samantha gasps a little. Just a sharp, painful intake of air.

I blink out of my haze and reach out a tentative hand to June. My fingers lightly graze her elbow, and she startles for a moment, only relaxing when she realizes it’s me. She softens as our eyes lock. The storm passes.

June finishes through trembling lips, “And I don’t want to leave the only brother I have left.”

I stiffen.

With a lingering look, she moves away, sweeping past her mother who stands rigid in the center of the kitchen, her skin pasty, her hair pulled up into a ratty mound of mats.

Samantha lets out the breath she was holding and finds me staring after June, probably looking as wrecked as I feel. “You’ll talk to her?”

My gaze skips back to Samantha. “What?”

“About the colleges. It’s important. She needs… she needs something to look forward to. A distraction. A purpose.”

“She needs time to heal, Samantha. It hasn’t even been two weeks.”

“Mom.” She worries her lip with her teeth, ducking her head away from my frown of confusion. “Would it kill you to call me that?”

My breath stops.

My heart clenches.

Samantha has never asked me that before. The Baileys have always respected my decision to address them by their names instead of ‘Mom and Dad.’ They know it’s not because I don’t love them or appreciate their kindness and nurturing over the years—it’s simply a deep-seated childhood response to what happened to me, and it’s one I’ve carried with me all my life.

But now, Theo is gone.

I’m the only son she has.

Guilt eats at me.

Stepping forward, I approach Samantha for a hug, for sympathy, for an apology that I’ll never be exactly what she needs… but she steps away. She retreats.

She offers the apology, instead.

“Forget it,” Samantha mutters softly. “I’m sorry I said that.”

She pivots, then spins on her heel and exits the kitchen without another word. Without a backward glance. She leaves me alone to finish the dishes, and I make my way back to the sink.

The silence is deafening, so I turn the faucet on full blast, hoping to drown out the memory of Theo’s laughter, his jokes, the way June would squeal when he picked her up and threw her over his shoulder until she was dangling upside-down. I zone out, trying not to think about the special moments we shared in this kitchen—disastrous cooking lessons, family dinners, comical bickering over chores, and late-night munchies when we’d stay up until sunrise engrossed in epic video game marathons. I sigh, wishing for June to return and wrap her arms around me again, and knowing I would hug her back.

I stare down at the broken plate, wondering how I can piece it back together.

The doorbell rings, pulling me from the depressing cave of bed covers that are well overdue for a wash. It’s almost noon the following day, and I’m still buried deep inside my blanket fort. I had to take a bereavement leave from the restaurant, too scattered to focus, too broken to perform, so the days are all bleeding together and time doesn’t seem to exist.

I traipse from my room in a white t-shirt and athletic shorts, my hair looking like a bird’s nest made of grass and twigs. When I turn down the short hallway to the staircase, I falter. I pause, pivoting toward the opening of Theo’s old bedroom, now a guest room.

Andrew is sitting on Theo’s bed.

He’s just sitting there.

Staring at nothing.

A deep ache hollows out my heart, and I have to look away. It hurts too much.

Ring, ring.

The doorbell chimes again, startling me back to the present moment, and I make my way down the staircase to the front door.

It’s Wendy.

Surprise claims me for a beat. While she made an appearance at Theo’s wake to pay her respects, we didn’t talk much. We haven’t talked much at all since she infected me with her depraved perspective on my relationship with June. A perspective I’ve come to internalize to the point of imminent annihilation.

Resentment bubbles to the surface, but I’m not sure if it’s aimed at Wendy for digging up my buried feelings, or at myself for allowing them to exist in the first place.

“Hey.” I pull the door open wider, letting her inside. “What are you doing here?”

Wendy hesitates before stepping through the threshold, her burgundy hair pulled up into a loose bun and a purple silk scarf around her neck.

My eyes narrow at it, my teeth clinking together.

“Sorry to bother you,” she says, dangling a little gift bag from her fingers. Her copper eyes are wide and glossy, shimmering with sympathies. “Chef Marino wanted me to bring this by for you. He sends his condolences.”

She hands me the bag, and I peek inside. “Chocolates?”

“His renowned hazelnut truffles.”

A smile lifts. Pauly sent me a handwritten card after hearing about Theo, telling me to take off as much time as I needed—that there would always be a place for me when I was ready to return.

It meant a lot.

For as prickly as Pauly comes across, there is something genuine about him. Something sincere.

“Thanks,” I murmur.

She nods. “Of course.” Wringing her hands together, Wendy clears her throat, glancing down at her sandals. “How are you, Brant?”

The truth?

The watered-down truth?

A blatant lie?

I’ve never understood that question in the aftermath of grief and loss—especially when it comes from people who aren’t equipped to handle the truth.

And if a lie is what they’re after, why bother asking?

“I’m not good, Wendy.” The truth wins out, causing her head to snap up, her brows furrowing with worry, as if she anticipated the lie. “In fact, I’ve never been worse. I can’t remember the last time I showered or dragged myself out of bed before noon, and I don’t really know how to move on from any of this. I’m not okay. And mostly, I wish I could go back in time and take Theo’s place.”

Her lips part, but no sound passes through. She takes a hesitant step forward, her hand extending for a hug, or a touch of comfort, but she’s stopped short when a new voice sounds from behind me.

“What is she doing here?”

I swivel around, spotting June at the bottom of the staircase, her hand curled white-knuckled around the railing. A hardened look is etched into her typically soft features, and she’s dressed in nothing but one of Theo’s old college t-shirts, the hem skimming her thighs.

She looks at me, then at Wendy, her eyes squinting with distaste. “You’re not welcome here. We’re grieving.”

“I was asked to stop by.” Wendy glances in my direction, a silent plea for help, before addressing June. “Brant’s boss wanted me to bring him a gift.”

“Brant’s boss has his phone number and address. Why send his ex-girlfriend?”

“I offered.”

The two women silently stare at each other, the air charged with animosity. June is hardly ever combative, so her disposition jars me. Clearing my throat, I take a tentative step toward June. “It’s fine, June. It’s just chocolates.” I hold up the baggie for emphasis.

“It’s not fine.” June crosses her arms, her shirt inching upward. Her eyes darken to blue coals as she keeps them pinned on Wendy. “She’s using your trauma to try to win you back.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Wendy cuts in, moving forward.

“Why are you wearing that?”

“What?” Wendy looks down at her outfit. “What are you talking about?”

“That scarf. It’s purple.” June stalks toward her, her eyes full of spite and sorrow. “Why would you wear that?”

“You’re acting craz—”

June rushes at Wendy, yanking the scarf from around her neck, tears leaking, body trembling. It flutters to the wood floor. “If you actually cared about Brant, you wouldn’t wear that,” she spits out. “Just go! You’re not welcome—”

“Whoa, hey.” My shock dissipates, and I jump between the women, my attention on June as I grip her upper arms and walk her backward, away from a stunned and wide-eyed Wendy. My voice is low, gravelly. Fused with concern. “What are you doing?”

“I…” Her cheeks are flushed pink, lips quivering, as her gaze skates from me to Wendy, then back to me. “I’m sorry…” She swallows, shaking her head. “I’m sorry, Brant.”

The anger dims from her eyes, replaced with only grief. Soul-shattering grief. When my grip on her loosens, she pulls free and spins around, dashing back up the staircase.

I’m compelled to chase after her.

I stall briefly, turning to watch as Wendy picks up her scarf and spares me a wounded glance before slipping out the front door, then I make my way to June’s bedroom.

Andrew is still sitting on Theo’s bed as I pass by.

Still staring at nothing.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Choking back a lump of sorrow, I find June curled up in the corner of her bed, legs drawn to her chest, face buried. Aggie is tucked inside one arm as she sniffles into the valley between her knees.

While I stare at her from the doorway, I’m drenched in a familiar sentiment, and a single word slips out before I can think it through. “Junebug.”

She freezes, the word echoing all around us.

Junebug.

I haven’t called her that in weeks. How could I? That nickname was born from innocence and purity. Unsullied love.

But now I know the sound of her desire. I’ve memorized the way her curves melt into me when I tug at her hair and make love to her mouth. I’ve witnessed the blue flames in her eyes when she looks at me in a way she should never look at me.

God, why did she kiss me?

Why did she have to go and do that?

And why was I not strong enough to resist her?

The name causes her eyes to flare when she lifts her head up, a softness trickling in for a split second.

A flicker of… relief.

She looks at me. She looks at me, and in the single heartbeat that skips between us, I know we’re both thinking about that kiss.

We haven’t talked about it. Haven’t even mentioned it.

If it hadn’t burned its way through my skin, sizzling my bones and scarring the marrow, I’d have wondered if I imagined the whole thing.

When June and I walked out into the hospital parking lot the night Theo died, June held a prescription for an inhaler in one hand and my trembling palm in the other. It had only been hours since our lips tangled, our tongues twisted, and our bodies rocked against each other, shamefully tempted by something we should never think to crave.

But a lot can happen in a few hours, and it did.

The unthinkable happened.

At the end of the day, two tragedies occurred that night—and when placed together, side by side, a forbidden kiss was nothing but a small crime.

So, when June let go of my hand as our feet stalled beside my car and raised her chin, finding my eyes with a look of pure devastation, I gave her what she silently begged me for.

A mutual understanding.

An absolution.

A shared promise that we’d sweep it under the rug for good.

Erased.

And then we both shattered, falling apart in each other’s arms, rocking against one another in a completely different way. I peppered kisses into her hair with apology instead of want. I held her with comfort instead of passion. Our moans bled into the night with loss instead of lust.

June curls a piece of unwashed hair behind her ear, her grip tightening on the childhood elephant.

I dip my eyes.

She can’t see the truth hiding behind the wall of grief; I can’t let it free. I can’t let it whisper in her ear and spill my dark secret—that kissing her fundamentally changed me, and there’s no erasing it.

There’s only pretending.

Pressing forward, I keep my head down. “I’m not going to ask you if you’re okay,” I tell her, stepping up to the edge of the bed and placing my hands into the pockets of my shorts. “I’m only going to ask you what I can do to help ease even a fraction of your pain.”

A small sound breaks free. Angsty and raw.

I brave a glance at her still huddled in the corner, her bare legs stretching as she clings to her stuffed animal. Tears continue to track down flushed cheeks as her swollen eyes search my face. June slicks her tongue over her lips as she whispers, “A lullaby.”

A lullaby.

Our lullaby.

“I can do that.” My voice sounds frail. Far away. “Anything you need.”

She scoots over, gesturing me to join her on the bed, inhaling a shuddery breath as she reins in her emotions. Her eyes don’t leave my face. Her clutch on the toy only strengthens.

Chewing on my cheek, I move toward her.

One leg raises, my knee pushing into the mattress, then the other. I crawl my way over to her, until we’re shoulder to shoulder, side by side, and June instantly presses into me like I’m her personal cocoon. My arm lifts to wrap around her shoulders, tugging her closer, feeling her shake with a new wave of tears. She nuzzles her face to my chest, and I prop my chin atop her head.

We sit like that for a while, my back against the wall, and June molded against my torso, made of lilacs and melancholy.

And then… I sing.

I sing her favorite lullaby, partially off-key, nearly cracking on my own remorse, and June continues to cry until her body goes still and her breathing steadies. I sing about rainbows and blue skies, and I wonder if that’s where Theo is right now. Somewhere over the rainbow, a happy little kid again, laughing and loving, rescuing things in need of saving.

Only, the things in need of the most saving are right here—nestled together like two lost creatures, sheltering from the cold.

June lifts up slightly when the song fades into silence, dragging Aggie over my hip and placing him in my lap. Her voice is scratchy as she says, “Take him, Brant. He’s a good friend.”

I look down at the well-loved toy with ratty fur and wrinkled ears. Some of the plush is rubbed raw, the white inner stitching peeking through from where June gave him one too many kisses, or held him a little too tightly. I shake my head. “No, he’s yours.”

“I want you to have him. You already lost Bubbles, and I broke my promise—I never found him for you.”

“I don’t need Bubbles anymore,” I tell her softly, pressing a kiss to her hair. “I’m okay.”

Her eyes draw up to mine, wide and watery. “You only say you’re okay so you can be strong for me. But I know you’re not. You’re in need of comfort, too.”

“I have comfort, June,” I say. Cupping the back of her head with my palm, I pull her back down to my chest and braid my fingers through her long, limp hair. I sigh, a smile breaking through as she curls back into me. “I have you.”

I should have known she’d find her way into my bed.

Vulnerable, tear-filled, and wracked with nightmares, she crawls in beside me, stirring me from my own restless slumber. “Brant.”

My name is whispered on a broken breath as fingers slide their way through my hair and a warm body presses into mine.

Alarm bells sing as my eyelids flutter open.

She shouldn’t be here.

Not now. Not anymore.

She’s too fragile, too lost, too pliant.

And so am I.

Backing my hips away from her warmth, I let out a sigh; equal parts turmoil, because she shouldn’t be here, and solace because she is.

“June,” I murmur, loathing the shakiness in that single word. “Go back to bed.”

I see her head shake back and forth through the dark room while moonlight illuminates her falling tears. “Don’t make me, Brant. Please.”

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“Why not?”

This time I can justify it. This time I have a reason. Swallowing, I grit out as gently as I can, “You know why.”

Her breath hitches, her fingers still twining through my hair.

I know it’s harmless.

Innocent; pure comfort.

But now all I can feel are her hands in my hair when our mouths were locked together as she tugged at it desperately, moans pouring from her lips.

My nether regions begin to rouse at the memory, and I inch backward. “Please. Go.”

“I can’t. I had a horrible nightmare.” She moves closer. “You died. I lost you. God, I can’t lose you…” June buries her face against my bare chest, her body tremoring with quiet sobs. “Let me feel you. Please… let me know you’re alive.”

My heart cracks, right along with my resolve. I let out a hard, painful exhale, and gather her in my arms, yanking her as close as I can. Her left leg lifts, wrapping around my hip until we’re impossibly tangled.

Too close. Way too fucking close.

She’s breaching my barriers. Burrowing inside.

Her hands are all over me, my hair, my jaw, my neck, my shoulders. Her breathing is heavy and ragged as she presses a kiss to the curve of my neck, and I feel sick.

I feel absolutely sick because all she needs is comfort, and I’m getting hard.

“God, June, please go.” My words are laced with desperation, and even though I’m telling her to go, I still hold her tight. Instinct drags my own hand to her knotted hair, and I fist it, crashing my forehead to hers. “Please.”

She makes a gasping sound. “I need you.”

“Why?”

“I-I’m scared.”

“Why?”

Her breaths come quick and shaky. Our lips are so close, nearly grazing. “I…”

“Why did you kiss me?” I blurt, tugging her hair harder, forcing a whimper from her lips.

Time stands still. Blue eyes lock on mine, our mouths hovering together, only a hair’s breadth apart. Just the slightest motion forward would sink us into another corrupt kiss, a kiss I’m confident would lead to something far worse, here in my bed, insatiably entwined, with darkness and desire fueling us—something we’d never recover from.

June inhales a sharp breath, her gaze dipping to my mouth, then back up. Swallowing, she answers in a shivery voice, “It was a dare.”

I blink.

My hand relaxes in her hair as I frown.

A dare.

She kissed me on a dare, and I thought it was more.

I thought it was so much more.

Letting her go, I jump back and sit up straight, running a hand across my mouth as if I’m trying to wipe away the taste of that kiss.

A kiss she never wanted in the first place.

It was just a dare.

She senses the dramatic shift in mood and sits up, scrambling toward me. “I-I’m so sorry, Brant. It was stupid of me to do it, but I made a pact with Celeste and Gen, and we all had to do something awful, and—”

Something awful.

Something. Awful.

“June.”

Her rambling ceases as she leans into me, chest heaving with worry. There’s a long pause before she continues. “I’m sorry. Please, don’t hate me for it. You’re the only brother I have left, and I won’t survive it if you hate me—”

“Go,” I say, my tone eerily low and firm.

“I promise I won’t—”

“You need to go.”

“But you’re my brother, and I—”

“I’m not your fucking brother!” Something inside of me snaps. That flimsy thread I’ve been holding onto since Prom night, when my entire world crashed and burned at my feet, filling my lungs with soot and turning my heart to cinders. June stares at me, staggered, lips parted with the remnants of her unsaid words. “I’m just an orphan,” I continue. “Life’s forgotten transient. I’m the by-product of a man who didn’t give two-shits about me—who killed my mother, then killed himself.

“I’m the leftovers of a tragedy, like that steak you forgot about in the fridge, the one you really wanted to eat. It had so much potential to be good, but you spoiled it. And you don’t want to throw it away, because that would be such a damn waste, so you just let it fester, stinking up everything around it that’s healthy and thriving, wishing you had gotten to it in time. It’s futile, though… you always end up tossing it.”

My chest heaves with heavy weights as I purge my guilt, my self-loathing.

My sickly fear that I’m going to infect June and drag her down into the waste with me.

Her gaze scatters across my face, glossed with tears. She’s breathing just as hard as me, drinking in every rotten word while she shakes her head to counter my tirade. “You don’t really think that,” she mutters gently. “You couldn’t possibly.”

I clench my jaw, pinching the bridge of my nose. “Just go, June… please.”

“You’re the strongest person I know. The bravest. When life knocks you down, you keep getting back up again. No one in the world has that kind of resilience—no one.” She’s still shaking her head. “You’re a true fighter. A hero. My rock.”

“Stop. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, I do. I’m not stupid, Brant.”

I spear her a sharp glance. “You’re naïve.” Sᴇaʀ*ᴄh the FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

She has no clue. She has no idea that only moments ago, I was imagining how my name would sound on her tongue when I made her come.

It’s sick.

It’s fucked.

It’s going to ruin us both.

June looks wounded, her face flashing with subtle pain. “Don’t,” she whispers. “Don’t be cruel. We need each other right now.”

“I can’t be what you need.” Averting my eyes, I shut her down. I have to—she’s the only good, pure thing I have left in my life, and I refuse to pollute her with these poisonous feelings that I don’t even understand. “You have to go. Don’t come back in here.”

My eyes remain fixed to the far wall while she processes my words beside me, still and quiet. While she absorbs this new energy swirling between us. While she cuts herself on the rusty razors hidden within my command.

I don’t wait for a reply.

I just lie back down, roll away from her, and pull the blanket up to my chin.

A blatant dismissal.

June never does respond… not with words, anyway. Her response is in the small cry of anguish that breaks free; the one that haunts my dreams that night. It’s in the shift of the mattress as she abandons me alone on the bed and retreats from the room, leaving only her sweet scent behind.

It’s in the starkness of her absence.

And it kills me, it does.

It absolutely destroys me.

But, ultimately, I know it’s for the best—

Better me than her.

I thought that losing my parents would be the worst thing that ever happened to me. True tragedy can’t be topped, right? There’s only so much trauma one person can suffer through… right?

Well, Theo’s death proved me wrong, and to this day, I still feel the ripple effects of that catastrophic blow. I’m still picking up pieces of debris.

The only sliver of peace during those awful, soul-crushing months after he died?

Practice.

I’d had practice with tragedy. I’d been there before, and I’d seen what the darkness could do.

I’d lived inside of it, and I’d crawled my way out with teeth, claws, and blood. I knew that darkness wasn’t permanent—just as the sun sets, the sun always rises.

And so do we.

But June didn’t know that. In her whimsical eighteen years of life, she’d been untouched, unscathed; a stranger to true darkness.

Until the day Theo died.

Tragedy changes people. It alters them, permanently.

And June manifested her grief into an overabundance of unhealthy love… for me. She clung. She squeezed. She traded in her devastation over losing Theo for an obsessive fear of losing me.

Maybe I should have tried harder. Perhaps I should have stayed, just a little bit longer, to help her heal. But I truly believed I was the one thing standing in the way of her healing.

So, I did what I thought I had to do.

I did what I thought was right.

One month later,

I moved out.