“I need some space,” my husband said, refusing to look at me. That night, I heard a car slow outside. I’m staying with a friend, he texted. I didn’t respond. Instead, I calmly checked the door camera. When a car I recognized all too well appeared in the darkness, I smiled. “That’s confirmation enough,” I murmured. Because from that second on… my plan was officially in motion.

Ten minutes later, as the front door closed behind him, my phone buzzed.

I’m staying at a friend’s.

No name. No reassurance. Just a statement, neat and distant, like a line rehearsed in advance.

I didn’t reply.

I didn’t cry. I didn’t ask which friend. I didn’t call his phone the way I might have months earlier, back when uncertainty still made me chase clarity from other people instead of myself.

Something in his tone—too controlled, too clean—told me questions would only insult my own intelligence.

Instead, I made tea.

I sat on the couch in the quiet living room, the house suddenly too large for one person but not empty enough to feel peaceful. Steam rose from the mug, curling into the air, and I let myself breathe slowly. Whatever this was, I could feel it settling into place.

Then I opened the door camera app on my phone.

We had installed it two years earlier, after a package theft. It had been Ethan’s idea.
“Just for safety,” he’d said, like it was nothing.

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