"That's all," I repeated, and we both knew I was lying.
Later that afternoon, I sat in my office trying to focus on the stack of patient files that needed signatures. I reached for a pen without looking, my hand closing around the familiar weight of my favorite ballpoint.
It was a black barrel with a silver clip, smooth ink that never skipped no matter how many forms I had to sign.
I'd used this pen every day for six years—through residency, my fellowship, every promotion, achievement and failure that had marked my career. It had become an extension of my hand, so familiar I barely noticed it anymore.
Calla had given it to me during our first year of marriage.
We'd been sitting in our apartment, surrounded by the boxes we still hadn't unpacked from our move. I'd been complaining about the hospital's cheap pens and how they always ran out of ink at the worst possible moment.
She had listened without comment, the way she always did, absorbing information and filing it away somewhere in that brilliant mind of hers. I'd forgotten about the conversation by the next morning.
Two weeks later, she'd pressed this pen into my palm.
"For all those charts you're always complaining about," she'd said. No fanfare or elaborate presentation. Just Calla, solving a problem I'd mentioned once and then dismissed.
That was how she showed love. Not with words or grand gestures, but with attention.
I've used the pen every day since even after the divorce.
I told myself it was practical. It wrote well. Why replace something that worked?
But sitting in my office with the afternoon light fading and Calla's presence haunting every corner of this hospital, I couldn't pretend anymore.
I'd kept it because throwing it away felt like losing another piece of her.
I set the pen down and pushed back from my desk, my hands unsteady.
This had to stop. Whatever I was feeling or residue of our marriage I was still carrying around, it had to stop. Maya deserved better than this. She deserved a partner who was fully present, not one who kept relics of his ex-wife in his jacket pocket like talismans against moving on.
So I did what a responsible partner would. I pulled out my phone and typed a message before I could talk myself out of it.
Cassian
Want to grab dinner tonight? That new place you mentioned?
Maya's response came within minutes.
Maya
I'd love that! What's the occasion?
Cassian
No occasion. Just want to see you.
I stared at the words after I sent them, wondering if they were true. Did I really want to see Maya?
My phone beeped again.
Maya
You're sweet. See you at 7?
Cassian
See you then.
