“My Friends Bet I Couldn’t Do Better Than You—I’m Just Proving Them Wrong,” She Said With A Smug Little Smile After I Caught Her Perched On Another Man’s Lap. I Didn’t Yell. I Didn’t Beg. I Just Looked At Her And Said, “Prove This Too.” Then I Took One Photo, Sent It To Her Parents With, “I Thought You Should See This,” And Walked Out. A Minute Later, My Phone Blew Up. She Was Calling In A Panic—Because Her Dad Had Already Opened The Message.

It was an act of reporting, a transfer of information to the relevant authority. I composed the text with the care of writing a critical piece of code. It had to be concise, factual, and unassailable: Mr.

Connelly, I regret to inform you that Chloe has ended our relationship tonight. I believe you should see the context in which she chose to do it. I valued your respect.

Alex. I attached the photo. I did not add emojis, punctuation for drama, or follow-up questions.

I let the image speak. I hit send. A strange, profound silence settled in the car.

The deed was done, there was no undo button, and I started the engine and drove toward the apartment—our apartment—for the last time. The drive was a blur of streetlights. My mind was a blank map, plotting only the next three moves: pack essentials, secure documents, leave.

I used my key, but the apartment felt instantly foreign, like a museum exhibit of a life that had just been terminated. There was the couch where she’d sighed about hikes, the kitchen island where I’d cooked her pasta while she talked about Jessica’s helicopter ride, and it was all just set dressing now. I went to the bedroom and pulled my old duffel bag from the top of the closet.

I worked with efficiency: laptop, charger, passport, a small lock box with my social security card and car title. From the dresser, I took only practical clothes—jeans, t-shirts, sweaters—leaving behind the nice shirt she’d bought me for her parents’ anniversary dinner because it felt like a costume now. In the bathroom, I swept my toiletries into a dopp kit, my toothbrush standing alone in the holder while hers was in her purse at the bar on a night that was supposed to prove something.

Finally, I stopped in the doorway of the bedroom. On the dresser was a framed photo from that dinner with her parents six months ago: Robert with his arm around Chloe’s mother, a rare soft smile on his face, Chloe beaming between them, and me on the end, looking slightly awkward but happy. Robert’s hand was on my shoulder.

“Take care of her, Alex.”

I didn’t take the photo. I turned and walked out, loaded the duffel into my trunk, and before I got in the car I did two more things. First, I opened my banking app and transferred my half of the next month’s rent into our shared account, the one she never checked, the one I used to pay bills.

I added a note: Rent for October. Lease termination to follow. No drama, just business.

Second, I went to my phone settings and found Chloe’s contact. I didn’t delete it—I blocked her number, then blocked her on every social platform I could remember. It wasn’t an act of anger.

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