“I was fixing it,” I choke out, the words swallowed by the empty house. “I was making it right. I ended it with Briana. I was choosing you. Ichoseyou.”
The house does not care.
My thoughts spiral into a sickening whirlwind.
Did she ever plan on forgiving me? Was she going to leave no matter what I did? Was there ever a chance, or was I just fooling myself?
A wave of nausea rolls through me, heavy and hot.
My stomach lurches, and I taste the acerbic, sour sting of bile at the back of my throat. I lean over the desk, my forehead pressing against the cool wood, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
My chest feels too tight. The world shifts in and out of focus. The floor is swimming beneath my feet.
Everything feels wrong.
The colours are wrong. The light is wrong. The air is wrong.
My eyes are dragged back to the desk. I pick up the ring, my fingers shaking so violently I can barely grasp it.
It’s cold.
So, so cold.
A dead, final cold.
A cold, golden tooth pulled from the mouth of a dead body. I hold the ring up to the light, staring at the empty space where her finger used to be, waiting for the utterly useless circle of gold to explain why I am still standing here while my wife has vanished.
I cannot accept that she is gone. I cannot accept that she left. I cannot accept that the woman I love has chosen to walk away from me, from us, from everything we built.
“She can’t be gone,” I rasp, the words cutting the stagnant air.
Not like this.
Not without a word.
Not without a fight.
Not without giving me the chance to finally be the man I promised I would be.
Not without a warning.
I collapse onto the edge of the bed, my head in my hands. The duvet is linen and crisp, too smooth, too clean, too perfect under my weight.
My wife left me.
This isn’t real.
This can’t be my life.
I am Julian. I have a good job. A nice house with a nice lawn. A beautiful wife. I am the kind of man who other men envy and women want. I am the natural, polished image of everything others lack. The career. The symmetry. The effortless ease of a life that looks like it was curated by a professional. That’s how it has always been.
I don’t get left. I don’t get abandoned. I don’t get reduced to a post-it note and an indifferent ring on a desk.
I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, the room will be different. The note will be gone. The ring will be cinched on her slender finger. She will be in the kitchen, stirring a pot. I will walk in and wrap my arms around her. She will lean back into my chest. Everything will be as it was.
I open my eyes.
The note is still there. The ring is still in my hand. The house is still silent.
