Miles away, I sat curled on a secondhand couch in a small, unfamiliar apartment. The kettle whistled on the stove, steam fogging the single window. I clutched the mug with both hands, the warmth seeping into my chilled skin.
My phone buzzed once with his name. Then again. And again.
Each vibration rattled against the counter like a chain begging to be fastened around my neck once more. I stared at the glowing screen, at the name that had once bound me so tightly I couldn’t breathe.
A tear slipped free, but my hand did not falter.
Block.
The silence that followed was not empty. It was deep. Heavy. Sacred. Freeing.
I pressed my hand to my chest, to the place where years of pain had burrowed deep, and whispered into the stillness: “I am done with this marriage.”
And this time, the words weren’t fragile hope.
They were truth.
