The cursor blinked on Alexander's laptop screen, patient and indifferent, its steady rhythm almost hypnotic as it waited for me to close the email that had just shattered my world into a thousand irreparable pieces. Each blink felt like a countdown, marking the seconds between my old life and whatever came next.
Can't wait to see you tonight. Last night was incredible. You're incredible. Leave the wife at home this time—I want you all to myself. Can't get enough of you. —V
I read it three times. Then four. Then five, my eyes tracing over each word as if the letters might somehow shift and rearrange themselves into something innocent, something explainable, something that didn't confirm what I'd been trying desperately not to see for months. Maybe there was another Victoria. Maybe this was some kind of joke, a test, a misunderstanding that would make sense if I just stared at it long enough.
But there was no other explanation. The words were clear. Brutal. Definitive.
The laptop sat on our kitchen island—Italian marble, Calacatta Gold with distinctive grey veining, imported at great expense because Alexander insisted, we needed "the best of everything." Nothing but the finest materials, the most exclusive designers, the top-tier everything. I'd chosen this particular slab from dozens of samples while he was in Tokyo closing a deal, or at least, that's what he'd told me he was doing in Tokyo. Now I wondered about every business trip, every late night at the office, every conference that ran long, every time he'd been too tired to talk when he finally came home, smelling of airport lounges and expensive restaurants I'd never been to.
My hands were shaking, trembling so badly I could barely keep them still. I pressed them flat against the cool marble, the stone cold and solid under my palms, trying to ground myself in something tangible, something real, while everything else in my carefully constructed life dissolved like sugar in water.
The penthouse was silent except for the ambient hum of the city forty-three floors below—the distant sound of traffic, the occasional siren, the white noise of urban existence that I'd learned to tune out years ago. Alexander was in the shower—I could hear the water running in our master bathroom, the rainfall showerhead he'd insisted on installing, the one that cost more than most people's monthly rent. Our bathroom. Our bedroom. Our life. Except none of it had been "ours" for a long time, had it? I'd just been too busy holding everything together, managing every detail, smoothing every rough edge, to notice it was already broken beyond repair.
I looked around the kitchen I'd designed, spending hours with architects and designers to get every detail perfect. The open concept living space I'd furnished, visiting showrooms and galleries, coordinating colours and textures and sight lines. The floor-to-ceiling windows that offered a panoramic view of San Francisco I'd once thought was the pinnacle of success, the ultimate achievement, the proof that we'd made it. Everything was perfect. Everything was beautiful. Everything was curated and considered and exactly as it should be. Everything was a lie.
The email was from Victoria Hastings. I knew exactly who she was—everyone in their industry did. Twenty-eight years old, brilliant, ruthless, ambitious in a way that made grown men nervous, from the kind of old money that made even Alexander's family fortune look nouveau riche. Tech money, Alexander's family had. But Victoria's people had railroad money, oil money, the kind of generational wealth that came with a compound in Martha's Vineyard and ancestors in the Social Register. She'd been at our house for a dinner party two months ago, one of those carefully orchestrated evenings where business and pleasure blurred together. I'd made coq au vin, her favourite, after Alexander casually mentioned it in passing. I'd seated her next to him at the table because he'd said they were working on a potential partnership, that it was important to make her feel welcome, that this deal could be huge for the company. I'd served them wine and smiled and played the perfect hostess while my husband and his mistress sat at my dining table, probably exchanging secret glances while I worried about whether the chicken was too dry.
The water shut off with a decisive click. I had maybe five minutes before Alexander emerged, smelling of his expensive Italian shower gel—Acqua di Parma, a scent I used to love—probably humming something under his breath because he was always in a good mood after his morning shower. His routine was predictable, comforting in its consistency. He'd walk out in his towel, get dressed in the closet, emerge in whatever I'd picked out for him the night before because he claimed to be "hopeless with colours." He'd kiss my cheek absently, a brief brush of lips that had become more habit than affection, pour himself coffee from the pot I'd already made, add exactly one sugar and a splash of cream, and ask what I had planned for the day in that vaguely interested tone that meant he wasn't really listening. As if my days mattered. As if he ever really paid attention to the answer. As if I was more than just part of the household machinery that kept his life running smoothly.
I should close the laptop. I should pretend I never saw it, never read these words, never had this particular window into my husband's betrayal. That's what the old Sophia would do—the Sophia who'd spent seven years of marriage smoothing over problems, making excuses, accepting apologies for things that shouldn't be apologized for, keeping the peace at any cost. The Sophia who'd learned to make herself smaller, quieter, more accommodating, more convenient.
But my hands moved without conscious thought, muscle memory and curiosity and anger propelling them forward. I scrolled up through the email thread, watching message after message appear, a documentary of deception rendered in Arial 12-point font.
You're amazing. Can't stop thinking about you. That meeting today? I couldn't concentrate on anything but you.
That thing you did with your tongue... Jesus. I'm getting hard just thinking about it.
She's going to that charity thing tonight. The one with all the Silicon Valley wives pretending to care about literacy or whatever. Come over at 8. Bring that wine you mentioned.
She. He called me "she." Not even "my wife" or "Sophia." Just "she," like I was an obstacle to be worked around, a schedule conflict to be managed, an inconvenience to be navigated around. An object. A thing in his way.
I scrolled further, my stomach churning with each new revelation. Six months. The affair had been going on for at least six months, maybe longer. The emails were explicit, casual, filled with the kind of easy intimacy that should have been mine, that I thought was mine. They had inside jokes I didn't understand. Pet names that felt like knives. He called her "Vic." She called him "Xander"—a nickname I'd tried once in our first year of marriage, young and playful and trying to create our own private language, and he'd told me firmly that he hated it, that it sounded juvenile and silly, that his name was Alexander.
Apparently, he only hated it when I said it.
My vision blurred, tears threatening to fall and ruin my careful makeup. I blinked hard, refusing to cry. Not yet. I could fall apart later, could dissolve into the grief and rage and humiliation that were building in my chest like a scream. But right now, in this moment, I needed to think. I needed to be strategic. I needed to be the version of myself I'd almost forgotten existed—the sharp, ambitious woman who'd graduated top of her class at Stanford, who'd had offers from three consulting firms, who'd had plans and dreams and a future that didn't revolve entirely around someone else.
The bathroom door opened with a soft click. Alexander walked out in his towel, hair damp and tousled, looking like he'd stepped out of a magazine ad for luxury watches or expensive cologne or the kind of lifestyle most people could only imagine. He was objectively handsome—I could acknowledge that even now, even as I hated him. Tall, easily six-two, fit from his regular sessions with his personal trainer, with the kind of classical features that photographed well. Strong jaw, straight nose, eyes that were an unusual shade of grey-green. I'd been so dazzled by him once, back at Stanford when he'd chosen me out of all the women who'd wanted him. And there had been so many women. He'd had his pick, and he'd picked me. Sophia Chen, the scholarship kid, the daughter of immigrants, the girl who'd worked three jobs to supplement her financial aid.
Chosen me. What a joke. What a cosmic joke. I'd won a prize that turned out to be a participation trophy, a consolation award for showing up and playing the game.
"You're up early," he said, his tone casual, conversational, as he walked toward the bedroom. He didn't even glance at the laptop. "I thought you'd sleep in after last night. You were up late with those seating charts for the gala. Still working on the Harrison placement issue?"
The gala. The annual charity event for his company, the one that required months of planning and coordination. I'd spent three weeks organizing it already, managing vendors, coordinating with the venue, negotiating with caterers, ensuring every detail would be absolutely perfect because Alexander's reputation depended on it. His business partners would be there, his investors, people who mattered to his career. Because that's what I did—I made his life perfect, orchestrated his success, managed the social machinery that kept his professional world turning, while my own life slowly disappeared like morning fog in sunlight.
"Alexander." My voice came out steady, controlled, almost cold. I was surprised by that, by the calm that had settled over me like armor. "Come here."
Something in my tone made him pause mid-step. He turned, his expression shifting from casual to cautious, and for a moment, I saw a flicker of something in his eyes. Concern? Guilt? Fear? It was gone too quickly to identify, shuttered behind the careful mask he wore for difficult business negotiations.
"What's wrong?" He walked toward me, but I noticed he was careful to stay on the other side of the island, keeping the expensive marble between us. Keeping distance. Maintaining a buffer. Had he always done that, or was I only seeing it now? How many of his gestures, his habits, his small cruelties had I normalized over the years?
I turned the laptop toward him slowly, deliberately, letting him see exactly what was on the screen. "You left your email open."
I watched his face as he registered what was displayed, cataloging every micro-expression like evidence for a trial. The color drained from his cheeks, then rushed back in a flush of red that crept up his neck. His jaw tightened, a muscle jumping near his temple. His eyes widened fractionally before he controlled his expression. But he didn't look surprised—he looked caught. There was a difference. Surprise would have been innocent. This was the face of someone who'd been found out.
"Sophia—"
"Don't." I held up a hand, fingers splayed, creating a barrier between us. "Don't say my name like that. Like you're about to explain something complicated to someone simple. Like you're about to manage me the way you manage your junior employees."
"It's not what you think."
I laughed. It was a harsh sound, bitter and unfamiliar in my own throat, like hearing a stranger's voice coming from my mouth. "It's not what I think? Alexander, I can read. The emails are very clear about what it is. There's not a lot of room for interpretation when someone writes about what they want to do to your tongue."
He ran a hand through his damp hair, water droplets falling onto his bare shoulders, a gesture I'd seen a thousand times when he was strategizing, trying to find the right angle, the winning approach. This was his negotiation face, his deal-making posture. He was already planning his defense.
"It was a mistake. It didn't mean anything. It was just—I don't know, a stupid lapse in judgment. A moment of weakness."
"Six months." I was still gripping the edge of the marble counter, my knuckles white with pressure. "It's been going on for six months, Alexander. That's not a mistake. That's not a moment. That's a relationship. That's a choice. Multiple choices. Hundreds of them. Thousands, probably. Every text, every email, every time you snuck away to see her, every lie you told me about where you were—those were all choices."
"I was going to end it." He moved closer, and I stepped back instinctively, my body reacting before my mind could process. He noticed. I saw him notice. "Sophia, please. It was just—she was there, and you were always busy with your own things, and we connected, and it just happened. It didn't mean anything. She doesn't mean anything. You're my wife. You're the one I love."
"My own things?" My voice rose despite my intention to stay calm, to maintain control. "My own things? You mean organizing your life? Managing your social calendar? Hosting your business dinners? Writing half of your presentations because you're 'better with numbers than words'? Researching your clients so you'd have talking points? What exactly were my 'own things,' Alexander? Please, enlighten me. I'd love to know what personal pursuits I've been so selfishly engaged in."
"That's not fair." His tone shifted, becoming defensive, almost petulant. "You're making it sound—"
"Fair?" The word tasted bitter, acidic on my tongue. "You want to talk about fair? I gave up a job at McKinsey for you. A real job, a career I'd worked my ass off for. I used my inheritance to fund your first expansion when the banks wouldn't give you credit. Fifty thousand dollars, everything my grandmother left me, the only financial safety net I had. I've spent seven years making sure you had everything you needed to succeed—the perfect home, the right connections, the social polish your tech-bro friends didn't have. And you think I'm being unfair?"
"You're twisting this." His tone shifted again, becoming harder. "You're rewriting history. You make it sound like you sacrificed everything, like you were some kind of martyr, but you benefited too. This penthouse, the lifestyle, the connections, the travel, the status—you think you'd have any of that without me? You came from nothing, Sophia. Your parents ran a dry cleaning business, for Christ's sake. I gave you all of this."
The words hit like a slap. I'd always known he thought this way, had always sensed the condescension lurking beneath his supposed love, but hearing it spoken aloud was different. It made it real. It made it undeniable.
"I didn't want the penthouse!" The words exploded out of me, years of suppressed frustration and swallowed anger finally finding their voice. "I wanted a partnership. I wanted a husband who saw me as an equal, not as an employee or a possession or a trophy he'd won. I wanted to build something together, not just be absorbed into your life like a convenient accessory. I wanted—" My voice cracked, and I hated myself for it, hated that I was showing weakness now when I needed to be strong. "I wanted you to love me the way I loved you. The way I thought you loved me. I wanted to matter to you as a person, not just as someone who makes your life easier."
"I do love you." He said it automatically, reflexively, the way he said "thank you" to waiters or "good job" to his employees after presentations. The words were meaningless, empty, a social nicety that required no thought or feeling. Meaningless. Reflexive. Hollow.
"No, you don't." The realization settled over me with strange clarity, like fog lifting to reveal landscape I'd never properly seen. "You love what I do for you. You love how I make your life easier, smoother, more successful. You love having a wife who makes you look good, who impresses your colleagues, who handles all the annoying social obligations you can't be bothered with. But me? Sophia Chen? The actual person? You don't even know who she is anymore. I'm not sure I do anymore either. I've been so busy being what you needed that I forgot who I was supposed to be."
"You're being dramatic." He was getting annoyed now, frustrated that I wasn't responding to his usual tactics. I could see it in the set of his shoulders, the tightness around his mouth, the slight flare of his nostrils. This wasn't going according to his script. "People make mistakes. Marriages go through rough patches. This is fixable. We can work through this. We'll go to counseling if you want. I'll end it with Victoria today, right now. I'll send her an email telling her it's over. We can get past this."
"If I want?" I stared at him, genuinely shocked by his audacity. "If I want counseling? Alexander, you cheated on me for six months with a woman you brought into our home, a woman you had me cook for and entertain and treat like a welcome guest, and you're acting like I'm overreacting. Like I'm being unreasonable for being upset that my husband has been fucking someone else."
"I'm trying to fix this!" His voice rose to match mine, his calm facade finally cracking. "What do you want me to do? Grovel? Beg? Fine. I'm sorry. I'm deeply sorry. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I was weak and selfish and stupid. But marriages survive this kind of thing. People work through infidelity all the time. We can survive this. We're stronger than this. We have too much history, too much invested to just throw it all away."
"Why?" The question stopped him cold. "Why should we survive this? Give me one good reason."
"Because—" He faltered, actually struggling for an answer. "Because we're married. Because we've built a life together. Because we took vows. Because walking away is just... giving up."
"You've built a life. I've just been living in it, maintaining it, keeping it running while you enjoyed the benefits."
"That's not true."
"Isn't it?" I moved away from the counter, suddenly needing space, needing air, needing to not be in the same orbit as him. "Name one thing I've done in the last five years that was mine. One dream I pursued. One goal I achieved that wasn't about supporting you, advancing your career, making your life better. One thing that was just for me."
He was silent. The silence stretched out, filling the space between us, becoming its own answer.
"You can't, can you?" I pressed, needing him to acknowledge it, needing him to see what he'd done even if it changed nothing. "Because there isn't anything. I erased myself for you, piece by piece, choice by choice, and you didn't even notice. You were too busy fucking Victoria Hastings in hotels and her apartment and probably in your office to notice that your wife disappeared. I became invisible in my own life."
"Don't be crude."
"Crude?" I laughed again, that same harsh, unfamiliar sound. It didn't even sound like laughter anymore. It sounded like something breaking. "I'm crude? You're the one who wrote detailed emails about what you wanted to do to another woman's body, explicit descriptions of sexual acts, but I'm crude for saying the word 'fucking'? That's rich. That's really rich coming from you."
"Sophia, please." He tried to move closer again, reaching for me, and I backed away, keeping the distance between us. "Let's just calm down and talk about this rationally. You're upset, understandably, but you're not thinking clearly. Let's sit down, have some coffee, and discuss this like adults."
"I am being rational. For the first time in years, I'm thinking clearly. Perfectly clearly. I'm seeing things as they actually are instead of how I wanted them to be." I walked to the bedroom, and he followed, his footsteps heavy on the hardwood floors. I pulled my large suitcase from the closet, the one I'd used for our honeymoon in Bali a lifetime ago.
"What are you doing?"
"Leaving." I started pulling clothes from hangers, not caring what I grabbed, just filling the suitcase with armfuls of fabric and shoes and whatever came to hand. Dresses, jeans, sweaters, underwear, all of it jumbled together without order or planning.
"You're leaving? Just like that? Right now?" He sounded genuinely shocked, as if this outcome had never occurred to him as a possibility. "You're not even going to try to work this out? You're not even going to give us a chance?"
I stopped and looked at him. Really looked at him, maybe for the first time in years. I saw the handsome face I'd once loved, but I also saw the weakness behind it, the selfishness, the entitlement that had always been there but that I'd refused to acknowledge. "Alexander, answer me honestly. If I hadn't found that email, if I hadn't seen those messages, would you have told me? Would you have confessed?"
He hesitated. It was only a second, maybe two, but it was too long. It was everything.
"That's what I thought." I went back to packing, moving faster now. "You would have kept seeing her. You would have kept lying to me, looking me in the eye every day and lying. And I would have kept making your life perfect while you betrayed me. I would have kept playing the role of devoted wife in our perfect life while you destroyed everything we were supposed to be."
"Where will you go?"
"That's what you're worried about? Where I'll go?" I zipped the suitcase closed with more force than necessary. "Not how I'm feeling, not what this means, not whether I'm okay—just the logistics of where I'll physically be. That's so perfectly you, Alexander. Always focused on the practical details, the management of inconvenient situations."
"I didn't mean it like that. I'm concerned about you. I just—"
"I'll figure it out. I've been figuring things out for you for seven years. I'm actually very good at solving problems and handling logistics. I think I can manage to figure out my own life. I'll be fine. Better than fine, probably."
"Sophia, be reasonable. You can't just leave like this. We need to talk about this properly. We need to make a plan. We need to—"
"We need to?" I turned on him, my anger finally breaking through my control. "There is no 'we' anymore, Alexander. There hasn't been a 'we' for a long time. There's been you, and there's been me serving you, and there's been Victoria, apparently. But there hasn't been an 'us' in any meaningful sense. I was just too stupid, too blind, too desperate to believe in what we were supposed to be to see it."
"You're not stupid." For the first time, he looked genuinely distressed, his careful composure cracking. "You're brilliant. You're the smartest person I know. You're incredible, and I'm an idiot, and I know I fucked up, I know that, but please don't do this. Please don't leave. Not like this."
"Then why did you treat me like I was worthless?"
The question hung in the air between us, heavy and unavoidable. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again like a fish gasping for air. No answer came. There was no answer that would make it better, that would explain or justify or excuse what he'd done.
"That's what I thought." I grabbed my suitcase and my purse, slinging the bag over my shoulder. "My lawyer will be in touch."
"Your lawyer?" His face paled, the color draining out of it completely. "You're talking about divorce? Already? We haven't even—you're going straight to divorce? Just like that?"
"What did you think was going to happen? That I'd forgive you and we'd go back to normal? That I'd keep playing the devoted wife while you—" I couldn't finish the sentence. The words were too painful, too humiliating, too close to a truth I'd been avoiding for months. "That I'd just accept this and move on and we'd pretend it never happened? That I'd wait around while you decided whether I was worth being faithful to?"
"I made a mistake!" His voice cracked, actual emotion breaking through finally. "One mistake, and you're throwing away seven years? Everything we built? Our whole life together? That's it? No second chance?"
"You made a choice. Every single day for six months, you made a choice. You chose her over me. Over us. Over the vows you made in front of everyone we knew. You chose to lie, to sneak around, to betray me in the worst possible way." I moved toward the door, my suitcase wheels clicking on the hardwood. "And I'm making a choice now. Finally. After seven years of making choices that were all about you, I'm making one that's about me. I'm choosing me. I'm choosing my dignity. I'm choosing a future that doesn't include someone who treats me as disposable."
"Sophia, wait." He grabbed my arm, not hard, not violently, but firmly enough to stop me, to prevent me from leaving. "Please. Don't do this. I love you. I know I fucked up monumentally, I know I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I love you. We can fix this. People fix things worse than this. We can go to counseling, we can work on it, we can rebuild. Please. Just give me a chance."
I looked down at his hand on my arm, his fingers wrapped around my bicep, then up at his face. His eyes were wet, actual tears threatening to fall. He might have even believed what he was saying in that moment. Maybe he did love me in his way, in whatever limited capacity he was capable of. But I knew Alexander. I knew him better than anyone. And I knew the difference between loving someone and needing them to maintain your lifestyle. He didn't love me. He loved the idea of me, the convenience of me, the way I made his life work. He loved what I provided, not who I was.
"Let go of me, Alexander."
"Sophia—"
"Let. Go." My voice was ice.
He released my arm, his hand dropping to his side, and I walked to the door. My hand was on the handle, cold metal against my palm, when he spoke again.
"You'll regret this. You're upset now, emotional, but when you calm down, when you think about it rationally, you'll realize you're throwing away everything we built. You'll realize this was an overreaction. You'll want to come back, and I don't know if I'll be able to take you back after this."
I turned back one last time, and I smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of someone who finally understood a joke they'd been the butt of for years. "No, Alexander. I'm finally reclaiming everything I gave away. And you know what? I don't think I'll regret it at all. I think I'll regret not doing it sooner. I think I'll regret the time I wasted trying to be enough for someone who was never going to value me properly. But leaving you? That's going to be the best decision I've made in years."
The elevator ride down forty-three floors felt like falling and flying at the same time, a strange sensation of descent and liberation happening simultaneously. My reflection in the mirrored walls showed a woman I barely recognized—pale, shaking, eyes too bright with unshed tears and suppressed rage, hair disheveled, dressed in yesterday's clothes because I hadn't even thought to change. But underneath the shock and pain and bone-deep exhaustion, I saw something else. Something that had been buried for so long I'd forgotten it existed, buried under years of accommodation and compromise and making myself smaller.
I saw myself. The real Sophia. The one who'd gotten a full scholarship to Stanford. The one who'd graduated summa cum laude. The one who'd had recruiters fighting over her. The one who'd had ambition and fire and dreams that didn't revolve around someone else's success.
She was still there. Battered, diminished, but there.
The lobby was empty except for the doorman, Hugo, who'd been working this shift for as long as we'd lived here. He nodded at me with professional discretion, his face carefully neutral. "Good morning, Mrs. Morrison. Can I call you a car?"
He'd probably seen plenty of residents leaving with suitcases at odd hours, emotional departures and arrivals, the messy reality behind the perfect facades. This was New york. This was a luxury building full of rich people and their rich people problems. Drama was a local specialty.
"No thank you, Hugo. I'll get a taxi." I tried to smile at him, to maintain some dignity, some composure.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Morrison," he said quietly, and something in his tone made me think he knew exactly what was happening. Maybe it showed on my face. Maybe he'd seen Alexander leave with Victoria. Maybe everyone had known except me.
"Thank you," I managed, and pushed through the doors.
Outside, the city was covered in cloudy skies, it was cold and raining, the trademark New York weather that tourists complained about and locals were used to. The sun was trying to come through, creating an odd luminescence, the world soft-edged and dreamlike. Or nightmare-like. I stood on the sidewalk, suitcase at my feet, and pulled out my phone. My hands were steadier now, the initial shock crystallizing into something harder, something more like resolve.
I had one text message, from Elena, sent at 2 AM: You still up? Want to grab breakfast tomorrow? I'm having Matt problems again. Need your advice. You're the only one who tells me the truth.
Elena. My best friend from college, the one friend I'd somehow managed to maintain despite Alexander's subtle discouragements, his gentle suggestions that maybe I was spending too much time with her, that maybe her "drama" wasn't good for me. Elena, who was messy and loud and imperfect and real, who'd never liked Alexander and who'd never pretended to.
I typed back: Can I stay with you for a while? I left Alexander. I found out he's been cheating. I need somewhere to go. Please.
The response came within seconds, as if she'd been waiting by her phone: WHAT?? Yes. Of course. Forever if you need to. Doors unlocked. I'll put coffee on. Strong coffee. And Soph? I'm proud of you. So, fucking proud of you. Finally. Come home.
Home. Elena's cramped one-bedroom apartment in the Mission wasn't home. But it also wasn't the perfect, hollow penthouse I'd just left. And right now, that was enough.
I flagged down a taxi and gave the driver Elena's address. As we pulled away from the building, I looked back once. The penthouse windows were dark from this angle, just another set of expensive squares in an expensive building full of expensive things. It looked like what it was: beautiful, cold, empty.
I didn't feel free yet. I didn't feel strong. I felt like I'd jumped off a cliff and was still waiting to see if I'd sprout wings or crash into the ground below. I felt terrified and exhilarated and grief-stricken and angry and a hundred other things that didn't have names yet.
But I'd jumped. After seven years of standing on the edge, making excuses, telling myself it wasn't that bad, telling myself that things would get better, that he'd change, that I just needed to try harder, be better, be more patient—I'd finally jumped.
And whatever came next—the divorce, the rebuilding, the terrifying prospect of starting over at thirty-two with no career and no savings and no plan—it would be mine. My choice. My life. My future. Mine to build or ruin or shape into something I couldn't even imagine yet.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, that felt like enough.
The taxi merged into traffic, carrying me away from the life I'd known and toward something unknown, something unwritten, something that didn't have Alexander at the centre of it. In my purse, my phone buzzed with incoming texts. Probably Alexander, probably panic and promises and all the things he should have said months ago, years ago. Probably pleading and bargaining and trying to control the narrative, to manage the situation, to fix what he'd broken with words he didn't mean.
I didn't look.
I was done looking back. I was done reading his messages, interpreting his moods, managing his life, accepting his excuses. I was done being the supporting character in someone else's story.
It was time to write my own