Sometimes I think about Jake.
Not in a romantic way. Not in a swoony way.
More like… a splinter.
The way his mouth looked when he smiled, surprised by it.
The way his hands felt on my waist in that chapel, steadying me when I swayed.
The way he said my name once, low, like he didn’t mean to say it at all.
And then the coldness the next morning. The distance. The way he looked past me like I was a mistake he could erase.
I tell myself I don’t care.
I tell myself this whole marriage thing is just a hiccup.
I tell myself I’m just delaying signing because I’m overwhelmed, not because part of me likes the thought of being married to him.
And then another day passes, and another.
And my sister never reads my message.
On the sixth day, I run out of ultramarine.
It’s stupid, but it feels like an emergency. That particular shade is the heart of the piece I’m working on, the ocean-heavy background that makes everything else feel alive. Without it, the painting looks flat, unfinished, like it’s holding back.
I rummage through my supply cabinet, moving jars and tubes and brushes. I kneel, reaching into the back where I stash my extras.
My fingers brush paper.
Not canvas paper. Not sketch paper.
Crisp.
Legal.
My stomach drops so fast I actually make a sound, like I’ve been punched.
Slowly, I pull the stack out.
The annulment papers slide into view, still tucked in their neat little envelope, and it’s like the universe is tapping me on the forehead and going, hi, remember this? Remember how you’re avoiding your entire life?
I sit back on my heels, staring.
The deadline is printed in bold.
And it’s already passed.
My mouth goes dry again. “No… no, no.”
I flip through, frantic now. Maybe I’m reading it wrong. Maybe I imagined the date. Maybe there’s a grace period.
But the numbers don’t change.
I missed it.
My chest constricts until it feels hard to breathe. The room suddenly seems too small, the air too thick with paint fumes and panic.
