My Roommate’s Dating Theory Killed Me, So Reborn I Let Her Go Chapter 06

My Roommate’s Dating Theory Killed Me, So Reborn I Let Her Go Chapter 06

Mr. Potts blinked before nodding vigorously.

“Absolutely. We can move you today. My new tenant is coming this afternoon to sign the lease.”

He sighed.

“And don’t worry. Clara won’t be living there anymore. I’ll refund her security deposit and the rest of her rent. She’s done.”

I nodded.

There was nothing else to say.

As I walked back toward the apartment building, the morning sun had already flooded the streets.

Rush hour traffic filled the roads.

The city looked exactly the same as it had every other morning.

Only I knew the truth.

My life had started over at 2:00 a.m. the night before.

When I reached the building, I saw Mrs. Higgins returning with breakfast in hand.

The moment she noticed the bandage around my neck, she hesitated.

Several emotions crossed her face before she forced a smile.

“Vivian, you’re back. Have you eaten? I picked up an extra breakfast

—

for you.”

She held out a sandwich and a cup of coffee.

I didn’t take them.

“Thank you, Mrs. Higgins, but I’m okay.”

Looking embarrassed, she withdrew her hand and walked beside me into the building.

She kept talking the whole way.

“What happened last night scared everyone half to death. I sleep pretty heavily, but even I woke up when I heard all the noise. I opened my door and the hallway was full of police.”

She shook her head.

“I defended Clara yesterday. I really did. I was completely wrong.”

The elevator doors opened.

She stepped inside with me and continued talking.

“I saw everything in the neighborhood group chat this morning. Everyone’s turned against Clara now. They’re tearing her apart online.”

She let out a dry laugh.

“She wanted some ridiculous romance where someone breaks into the wrong apartment and falls in love. Instead, she actually helped someone commit a home invasion. I still can’t believe she unlocked the door for a criminal.”

I never responded.

—

When the elevator reached the seventh floor, I stepped out.

She followed.

I turned toward her.

“Mrs. Higgins, you should head home. I’ll be fine.”

She finally stopped, reminded me to get some rest, then rode the elevator back downstairs.

I unlocked my apartment.

The living room still looked exactly as it had after the attack.

My backpack lay overturned on the floor.

The cash had been taken by the police as evidence.

The coffee table sat crooked.

One of the couch cushions had been knocked onto the floor.

I bent down, picked it up, and placed it back where it belonged before walking into my bedroom.

The security chain still hung from the door.

Its metal links glinted coldly in the morning sunlight.

I reached out and ran my fingers over the latch.

Fresh scratches covered the metal where the intruder had violently tried to force the door open.

If I hadn’t installed that chain…

—

If I hadn’t woken up when he tried to enter the bedroom…

If my phone hadn’t been fully charged beside my pillow…

I couldn’t bring myself to think any further.

I removed the chain lock, placed it inside a drawer, and began packing.

At two o’clock that afternoon, Mr. Potts returned with the new tenant.

He looked to be in his early thirties.

He wore glasses, spoke politely, and worked for a nearby company.

He liked the apartment immediately and signed the lease on the spot.

Mr. Potts transferred Clara’s security deposit and the remaining rent to me, asking me to pass it along to her.

“I don’t ever want to see her again,” he admitted quietly.

I accepted the money and moved my luggage into the living room to wait for the movers.

Then my phone rang.

It was Clara’s mother.

The moment I answered, I heard sobbing.

“Vivian… please… I’m begging you. Can you forgive Clara? She’s still just a kid. She never imagined this would happen. She knows she was wrong now. The police said they’re going to detain her. She’s only twenty-two. If she ends up with a criminal record, it’ll ruin the rest of her life…”

—

As I listened to her broken cries, another memory surfaced.

In my previous life, Clara had stood beside my corpse, wiping away fake tears while saying,

[“She only had herself to blame.”]

My voice remained calm.

“Mrs. Miller, the man who held a knife to my throat got into my apartment because your daughter let him in. She stole my key, unlocked my door, and cleared the way for a violent criminal.”

“The police will handle this according to the law. I don’t have the authority to forgive her, and I certainly don’t have the authority to make decisions on behalf of the justice system.”

Silence filled the line.

A few seconds later, her sobbing became even louder.

I didn’t listen any longer.

I ended the call and set my phone aside.

The movers arrived shortly afterward.

I wheeled my suitcase downstairs.

The afternoon sun was warm against my face.

I tilted my head back and took a long, deep breath.

A breeze drifted between the apartment buildings, carrying the soft warmth of early summer.

—

I moved into my new apartment that evening.

The fingerprint lock registered without any issues.

Building security patrolled twenty-four hours a day.

Across the street, clearly visible through the windows, stood the local police station.

I unpacked one item at a time.

My laptop went into the desk drawer.

I split my cash between two separate hiding places.

On the inside of my bedroom door, I installed a brand-new security chain I’d purchased myself.

Only after everything was finished did I sit down on the bed.

My fingers brushed the bandage around my neck.

I remembered the icy edge of the blade sliding across my skin the night before.

I remembered the final moments of consciousness from my previous life, when my throat had been cut open.

But this time…

I had survived.

—

I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.

The apartment was quiet. Safe. New.

I thought about Clara’s mother on the phone, begging for forgiveness that wasn’t mine to give.

I thought about Mrs. Higgins, who had been so quick to defend Clara and just as quick to turn against her.

I thought about Mr. Potts, carrying the weight of guilt for what had happened under his roof.

But most of all, I thought about myself.

The old Vivian would have forgiven Clara. Would have made excuses for her. Would have let herself be guilt-tripped into silence.

The old Vivian had died with a knife in her throat.

The new Vivian was still alive.

And she was done being a doormat.

I reached for my phone and opened the neighborhood group chat.

Clara’s mother was still posting, still begging for sympathy, still trying to paint her daughter as the victim.

I typed one message and sent it before I could second-guess myself:

[Clara unlocked my door for a man who held a knife to my throat. She is not the victim. I am. Please stop trying to rewrite what happened.]

I put the phone down and closed my eyes.

The silence in the apartment was deep and peaceful.

For the first time in two lives, I felt like I could finally rest.