Ashray's ex-wife called.
Just a missed call, no message. But it cracked something open.
He hadn't spoken to her in a year—not since she left with two suitcases and all the sharpness that had once made her irresistible.
He called back. Straight to voicemail.
"Hey," he said, voice shaky. "I saw your name today and my chest reacted before my brain. Hope you're… functional. That's the most honest thing I can say."
He didn't mention Ira. He didn't mention the photo, or the toothbrush, or the strange man behind them at the café.
But he thought about it all.
Later that night, Ira came over. Drunk. Lipstick uneven. Eyes unreadable.
"Bad day?" he asked.
"No," she whispered. "Just want to feel something that doesn't require consequences."
They didn't kiss. They collided.
And in the silence after, when she lay on her side facing the wall, Ashray said, "Did you ever love him?"
She took a while.
"Yes."
"Still do?"
"No."
"Why not?"
She turned to face him.
"Because love isn't what people think it is. It's not red. It's not fire. It's not poetry. It's a lease. And I stopped paying the rent."
She fell asleep after that.
But Ashray didn't.
Because he wasn't sure if Ira had moved on…
Or if she was just renting him now.