Elena didn't wait long.
Her presence slipped back into our lives the way it always had, quietly, insistently, with the confidence of someone who believed she had never truly left.
It started with flowers.
They arrived mid-morning, delivered to the house with a handwritten card. I was the one who accepted them from the staff, my fingers brushing the cool cellophane as I read the neat, familiar script.
For old times. —E
I set the bouquet on the entry table and walked away without comment.
Alexander noticed them an hour later.
"Did you order flowers?" he asked from the doorway of the study.
"No," I replied.
He stepped closer, read the card, and went still.
"I'll take care of it," he said quickly.
I looked up from my book. "How?"
"I'll call her," he said. "Ask her not to send things here."
I nodded once. "That would be appropriate."
He hesitated. "Would you rather I didn't?"
The question caught me off guard.
"I'd rather you didn't ask me to manage your guilt," I said gently. "This is yours."
He winced, but nodded. "You're right."
He left the room to make the call.
I didn't listen. I didn't need to. I knew Elena well enough to imagine how it would go, her voice soft, regretful, carefully wounded. I knew Alexander well enough to picture the way his spine would straighten, his tone cooling into formality.
What I didn't anticipate was how long the call would last.
When he finally returned, his expression was tight, his shoulders rigid with restraint.
"She's having a hard time," he said.
"I'm sure she is," I replied.
"She doesn't understand why this feels… final."
I closed my book. "And do you?"
He didn't answer immediately.
"I told her we're not resuming anything," he said. "That the divorce isn't finalized yet."
The words landed wrong.
"Is that how you framed it?" I asked.
"It's the truth," he said defensively.
"It's a truth," I corrected. "Not the one that matters."
He frowned. "What would you have preferred?"
"That you tell her you chose to stop," I said. "Not that something is still undecided."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't want to be cruel."
"And I didn't want to be temporary," I replied softly.
The silence that followed was heavy.
"I didn't mean it like that," he said.
"I know," I said. "That's the problem."
That afternoon, I left the house alone.
I didn't announce it. I didn't ask permission. I simply took my coat and walked out, letting the air clear my thoughts as I moved through the city.
When I returned hours later, Alexander was waiting in the living room.
"Where were you?" he asked, standing quickly.
"Out," I said.
"You didn't say you were leaving."
"I didn't know I needed to."
He ran a hand through his hair. "I was worried."
I studied him. "You didn't seem worried when you were explaining our marriage as unfinished business."
The words stung him. I could see it.
"That's not what I meant," he said. "I just… I didn't want to shut a door violently."
"Some doors need to be closed firmly," I replied. "Otherwise, they stay open."
He exhaled slowly. "I'm trying to do this right."
"I believe that," I said. "But trying isn't the same as changing."
The truth settled between us, quiet and unavoidable.
That night, when we lay down to sleep, the distance between us felt wider again, not because of anger, but because of clarity.
Alexander had taken a step forward.
But he had also shown me how easily he could step sideways instead.
And for the first time since the thirty days began, I felt the shape of the ending more clearly than the hope of a beginning.
Not because he didn't care.
But because caring, for him, still came with hesitation.