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Chapter 21 - Chapter 1 The day she finally stopped caring

The morning began the same way it always did—with silence. Not the peaceful kind, but the thick, suffocating silence that filled the room like fog, pressing against her ribs.

Mira sat at the edge of the bed, her fingers tracing the faint, familiar wrinkle in the sheet beside her. The spot was still warm where he had lain. Once, that warmth had been a comfort. Now, it was just a physical reminder that he had stayed again—out of habit, not affection.

The old, brass-cased clock on the wall ticked in defiance of her stillness. 7:12 a.m. Another day she would wake up beside a man she no longer loved. Another day of maintaining the pretense.

The shower started in the bathroom. His voice followed—humming that same relentless tune he always did when he was trying too hard to sound happy. Mira couldn't pinpoint when she had started hating that sound. Was it the morning he forgot her birthday? The night he dismissed her with a flat,

"You're overreacting again"? Or was it just the gradual accumulation of every time she looked into his eyes and saw the reflection of a woman she no longer recognized?

She stood, reaching for her robe and tying it loosely around her waist. The mirror caught her gaze: a woman with dull eyes and a heart that had long since passed the point of breaking.

"I don't care anymore," she whispered to her reflection.

And for once, the statement didn't sound like a lie.

By the time he came out, Mira was already at the kitchen table, scrolling through her phone, a mug of untouched coffee in front of her. He smiled, that easy, practiced smile he'd used to charm his way out of a thousand small arguments.

"Morning," he said.

She looked up.

"Morning." Her tone was flat—not cold, not warm, just... nothing.

He hesitated, a man stepping into a room he no longer owned. "You're quiet today."

"I usually am," she replied, taking a measured sip of her coffee.

He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Once, she would have rushed to fill the gap, offering comfort, asking if he'd slept well, if he wanted toast, if he needed anything.

But that was before.

Before the apologies that meant nothing. Before the promises that broke faster than they were made. Before she realized love wasn't something you should have to beg for.

He left for work ten minutes later, his familiar cologne trailing behind him like a ghost. Mira didn't watch him go. She didn't stand by the window, waiting for him to look back like she used to.

When the door clicked shut, she exhaled—a quiet, tired sound that held no sadness. It was release.

She went to the sink, poured the coffee down the drain, and whispered, almost like a prayer:

"A woman should know how to give up."

And that morning, Mira finally did.

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