I thought that would be the end of it, but something flickered in Max’s eyes—sharp, almost disappointed. He nodded, but didn’t reach for me, didn’t offer comfort, didn’t repeat that he was sorry. He simply went quiet.
In the days that followed, that silence thickened into something colder. Max barely spoke. He moved around the house like he was completing tasks, avoiding my eyes, responding with clipped, one-word answers. At first, I tried to rationalize it—grief affects people differently, I told myself. I tried to be patient, gentle even.
But the more time passed, the more clear it became:
Max’s distance didn’t feel like sorrow.
It felt like calculation.
Then, out of nowhere, he filed for divorce.
He didn’t ask to talk. He didn’t try to explain. He simply placed the documents on the kitchen table like he was setting down the mail. I stared at the pages, confused, numb, and embarrassed that part of me was still hoping this was some kind of mistake.
“What is this?” I asked, though the answer stared me in the face.
“It’s better this way,” he said, refusing to meet my eyes. “We’re not… compatible anymore.”
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