I go to his desk.
The pens are arranged. The papers are stacked. Everything in its place, because I am the one who puts everything in its place.
I pick up a post-it note. Yellow. Square. The same kind I have used for years to leave him reminders—Milk.Dry cleaning.Call your mother.
And write two simple lines:
I’m leaving.
You’ll receive the divorce papers soon.
I place it on the table beside the phone he gave me and my wedding ring.
The phone is dark. The ring is gold. They sit side by side, two objects that once defined me—the device that connected me to him, the band that bound me to him.
My gaze sweeps the house.
The kitchen where I cooked a thousand meals. The counter where I stood with a towel in my hands and flowers in a vase and a husband who did not know me. The table where I sat across from him night after night, eating food I did not taste, listening to stories I did not hear.
This house fed me. Sheltered me. Gave me a roof and food and the illusion of safety.
And then it slowly started to suffocate me.
The walls that were supposed to protect me became the walls that held me in. The silence that was supposed to be peace became the silence of a tomb. The man who never raised his hand became the man who raised my fear.
And then I walk out.
Out of the fear.
Out of the uncertainty.
Out of the life that was erasing me, day by day.
This time, I am not a scared child. This time, I am not coming back. This time, I am not just surviving.
This time, I am choosing tolive.
Chapter Ten: Julian
Briana corners me at work.
I don’t see her coming. I don’t see her until her fingers close around my wrist. Her voice is in my ear, too low for anyone else to hear. The touch is familiar—too familiar. Her fingers have traced this path before: my wrist, my back, my neck, the hollow of my hip.
The memory of her skin rises before I can stop it, and I hate myself for not being able to forget.
“Two minutes. Just come with me.”
Before I can shake her off, she’s already pulling me down the hallway—quick, confident, as if no time has passed. As if the last few months of silence never happened. As if she still has a claim.
I could pull away. Ishouldpull away. But my feet keep moving, following her as they always have—and that’s exactly how I ended up in this mess, how I stayed long after I knew I should stop.
The storage room door clicks shut behind us, sealing us in silence.
She exhales, relieved. I feel my body becoming a bow being drawn taut to the point of breaking; every muscle coiled with a primitive, electric tension, a frantic longing for the door, for the open air, for any possible escape from the trap of her presence.
But I don’t leave. I stand there, frozen, while she stands in front of me, her back to the door, her arms crossed, her smilesmall and knowing. She steps closer. Her hand is still on my wrist. Her thumb moves in small circles.
“Your wife isn’t leaving you,” she says, her voice rushing out as if she’s been holding this back for months, storing them up, waiting for the moment when she could finally release them. “It’s been too long, Julian. If she was going to go, she’d be gone by now.”
