When I walked into the house, the air felt different — heavy, unfamiliar.
Something in me already knew before I even saw it.
His jacket was tossed carelessly over the sofa. The faint scent of perfume clung to the air not mine. The living room, once cold and quiet, felt invaded by someone else's laughter that had long faded.
I took a few steps forward, my heels echoing on the tiles, and that's when I saw it the careless traces of what had happened while I was gone.
A woman's bra on the floor. A wine glass tipped over on the coffee table.
I froze.
It was like watching my heart shatter in slow motion not loud, not sudden, but quiet and devastating.
I didn't cry right away. I just stood there, staring at the chaos, realizing that this house had never really been mine.It had been a stage where I'd been performing love alone.
Finally, I sat down, my hands trembling.
All the pretending, all the patience, all the waiting… for what?
He had forgotten me.
And I had wasted so much time trying to make him remember.
The report lay in my purse, a reminder that time was already stealing everything from me but at least now, I wouldn't let it take my self-worth, too.
I looked around one last time, at the remnants of a love that was already gone, and whispered to the empty room:
> "You can have the house, Ethan. But you can't have what's left of me."
Then I turned, walked out, and didn't look back.