Now I was sitting in a divorce attorney's office, and Greece felt like a dream. My stomach was already churning with nerves and grief and the terrible certainty that I was about to make a mistake I couldn't take back.
I wondered how we'd gotten here.
But I didn't know how to stop it. I didn't know what words would change anything or if there’s a gesture that would bridge the distance that had grown between us over the past year. We tried talking, therapy, giving each other space or spending more time together. Nothing worked. Every conversation ended the same way: both of us were exhausted, hurt, wondering if love was supposed to feel this hard.
The door opened and Calla walked in.
She was wearing the gray coat I'd bought her two Christmases ago, the one with the silver buttons she'd admired in a shop window. Her deep red hair was braided, pulled backfrom her face in the intricate pattern she only used when she was nervous. I knew her better than I knew my own—the braid, the way she held her shoulders slightly too rigid, the blankness of her expression, like she was performing composure rather than feeling it.
She looked beautiful. She always looked beautiful to me, even now, even here.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi."
She sat in the chair beside mine, close enough that I could smell her shampoo. Citrus and rosemary, the same scent she'd worn since medical school. I'd bought her a bottle of it for her birthday once early in our relationship and she'd never switched to anything else.
Strange… the details that stay with you. The things you memorize without meaning to.
We sat in silence without touching. The receptionist glanced at us with sympathy, the look of someone who'd seen this scene play out a hundred times before.
"Ms. Patterson will see you now," she said.
The lawyer's office was smaller than the waiting room. Patricia Patterson was an older woman with silver hair and kind eyes, radiating with competence and compassion. She specialized in uncontested divorces, which was a polite way of saying she helped people end their marriages with minimal drama.
"Please, sit down," she said, gesturing to the two chairs across from her desk. "Can I get either of you anything? Water? Coffee?"
"No, thank you," Calla said.
"I'm fine," I added.
Patricia nodded and opened a folder on her desk. The papers inside were crisp, covered in legal language thatreduced our marriage to assets and debts and the clean division of a life we'd built together.
"I've reviewed everything you both submitted," she said. "This is relatively straightforward. No children, no contested property, and both parties in agreement on the terms of dissolution." She looked up at us, her gaze moving from Calla's face to mine. "We can finalize everything today if you're both certain this is what you want."
Certain. What an ironic word to use.
I wasn't certain of anything. Whether we were doing the right thing, if I would ever stop loving her, or if I knew how to exist in a world where Calla wasn't my wife.
But I nodded anyway. We'd come this far and I didn't know how to turn back.
Beside me, Calla nodded too. Her face betrayed nothing, but I saw her hands clench in her lap, knuckles going pale.
Patricia walked us through each page, explaining terms we already understood. Asset division: we'd agreed to split everything evenly—though there wasn't much to split. Debt allocation: student loans stayed with whoever had incurred them. Neither of us was asking for support from the other. We were leaving this marriage the same way we'd entered it: independent, self-sufficient, alone.
"Sign here," Patricia said, pointing to a line at the bottom of the page. "And here. And initial here."
I picked up the pen. My hand was steady, which surprised me. I'd expected trembling, some physical manifestation of the turmoil happening inside my chest. But my fingers moved smoothly, signing my name in the spaces indicated.
Cassian Reed. Cassian Reed. C.R.
Calla signed beside me. Her handwriting was the same as always: precise, controlled, the penmanship of someone who'd spent years writing on medical charts. Our signatures lookedstrange together on these documents, side by side but not meeting, a proof that something that had begun with promises was ending with paperwork.
"I'll file these tomorrow morning," Patricia said gently. "The divorce will be final in sixty days. If either of you changes your mind before then, you can withdraw the petition. No judgment or penalties. It happens more often than you'd think."
She was giving us an out and a last chance to reconsider.
I looked at Calla. She was staring at the papers on the desk, her expression unreadable. I tried to catch her eye and communicate without words, but she wouldn't look at me.
