That was it. No fight. No screaming. No ugly ending scene you could point to and say, This is when it broke. Just absence and a lack of accountability for any of her own unhappiness.
I remember walking through the house like a burglar, opening drawers and closets, searching for proof that this was all a joke—that she wasn’t actually gone, that she’d changed her mind. Her toothbrush missing. The suitcase gone. Her favorite sweater no longer draped over the chair. Every piece of her absence screamed louder than words. And then, as if it hadn’t been there from the moment I walked through the front door, the silence that came crashing down around me when I finally acknowledgedthe truth—my wife was gone. The silence was the loudest thing of all.
It crushed me. Not just because she left, but because of what it meant. It meant I wasn’t enough. It meant years of trying—years of bending myself into something she might want—had still ended with her packing a bag and leaving. And not just leaving, but leaving me for someone else—a man who reminded her of high school.
That kind of betrayal doesn’t just scar you. It rewires you.
Here’s the mess I made out of that rewiring: I built a life around never letting anyone close enough to choose meorleave me. I pretend casual is freedom and numbness is maturity. I learn names at midnight and forgot them with the sunrise. I’m very, very good at clean exits. The trick is to convince yourself that leaving is power, so you do it first. Fear in fancy clothes.
I’ve carried it like armor and used it like a weapon. Until today, this afternoon, I had convinced myself women like her—women who smile politely while their hearts are already somewhere else—are everywhere. That charm is camouflage. That confidence is a mask. That anyone who looks too good at holding their ground is already planning their escape.
It has made me bitter. Distrustful. Has made me believe that the sharp-tongued, self-possessed women of the world aren’t strong—they’re dangerous. That they’ll cut a man off at the knees just to stand taller.
And I’ve given it back, full throttle. I don my best smiles, keep myself in relatively great shape, swipe right on any woman who looks like a good time with a side of trouble. I’m here for a good time, not a long time. I’ll fuck them and leave them—most of the time I don’t remember their names.
It doesn’t matter. They don’t matter.
Nothing matters. Not when it comes to women.
And when I first met Tori, I slotted her into that box withouthesitation. Beautiful. Smart. Guarded as hell. The kind of woman who could slice you open with a single word and then watch you bleed. In my head, she was just another Stephanie. Another selfish bitch in denial of her own flaws, unwilling to open her eyes and accept the fact that she is at least half at fault for the demise of her own marriage.
And I was wrong.
So. Fucking. Wrong.
Because what I saw today wasn’t cruelty or calculation. It wasn’t someone who enjoyed twisting the knife. It was survival. It was steel under pressure. It was a woman holding herself together while someone tried to dismantle her, piece by piece.
Stephanie walked away from me because she wanted something shinier, something that looked like a better story to tell her friends. But Tori… Tori walked away from Chase because she wanted to reclaimherself. And I can’t stop replaying that difference in my head.
Maybe that’s why herthank yougutted me. Because it wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t manipulation. It wasn’t the kind of sugarcoated line you toss out when you want someone to feel useful. It was raw, unfiltered honesty. She meant it.
And for the first time in years, I wanted to mean something back.
The soundof the filing cabinet drawer closing outside my office snaps me out of my wandering thoughts and I’m suddenly staring at the same quiz. Same red pen in hand.
Perhaps I should have stayed with her after Chase stormed out. Talked to her. Tried to take her mind off of what happened. Instead, I walked back into my office, sat at my desk, and pretended to grade quizzes. Because that’s what you do when you don’t know how to be human in front of someone you don’t wantto scare off. Because you’re terrified of saying the wrong thing. Because humor is easier than heart.
I tell myself I’m being respectful—giving her space. But really I’m circling. Like a goddamn shark. Every day I catch her out of the corner of my eye, the way she tucks a stray lock of that gorgeous brunette hair behind her ear, the way she keeps her shoulders tight. I hear the flicker of the fluorescent light above the copy room every time she walks by.
And I’ve noticed more than I should. Not just today, not just after Chase showed his face. I’ve caught myself cataloging things I had no business paying attention to?—
the coffee ring on her desk from this morning, half-mooned and drying.
The paperclip she bent absentmindedly, left by the keyboard like a tiny silver question mark.
Her cardigan draped over her chair instead of the coat hook.
They aren’t important. They aren’t even remarkable. But they stuck anyway, like my brain wanted to memorize her without my permission. Even when I was still convinced she was another Stephanie waiting to happen, I noticed. I clocked the way she fidgets with her pen during phone calls. The way she lingers by the copier like she’s buying herself a few extra breaths before heading back to her desk.
Why? Why did I notice? Why did I want to?
I don’t care about women. Not really. I use them. Bodies, lips, legs—brief distractions that burn hot and burn out. I fuck them and leave them. Most nights I don’t remember their names. That’s the deal I made with myself after Stephanie: they don’t matter, so I can’t get gutted again.
But Tori… she doesn’t fit in the box I built for women. She doesn’t fit anywhere I try to shove her. Our banter earlier in the day—how the hell did that feel like foreplay when it was about a goddamn quiz? Why did I like sparring with her, testing her, pushing until she pushed back harder? Why do I want her mind just as much as her body?
I don’t want this. I don’t wanther. I want easy. Disposable. Forgettable. Yet instead, I’m sitting here with a red pen in my hand, distracted by the echo of her voice, thinking about the curve of her mouth when she smirks at me and the way her eyes sharpen like she knows more than she says.
Why is this woman taking up so much space in my thoughts?
