The ringing faded. The living room was silent, lit only by the cold reflections of broken glass.
I pushed myself up, my palm stinging. When I looked down, I saw a cut on my wrist, blood already clotted along my fingers.
Just then, my phone vibrated.
It was a message from my lawyer.
[Ms. Severin, all divorce procedures have been completed today. Effective immediately.]
I stared at the message for a long time.
My chest was strangely calm.
The taut string inside me finally snapped.
I stood up slowly and went to the bathroom to clean the wound—rinsing it, disinfecting it, wrapping it carefully. Every movement was steady.
The person in the mirror looked pale, eyes swollen and red, but not a single tear fell.
I returned to the living room and took out the wrinkled abortion report from my bag.
I placed it in the most visible spot on the couch, pressed under a cushion.
No note. No explanation.
If he saw it, then he saw it.
If he didn’t, that was fine, too.
I pulled out the suitcase I’d packed long ago. There was barely anything inside.
These past few days, Tucker hadn’t even noticed the closet was emptier, the books were gone, even my usual cup was missing.
Maybe his mind had never really been here.