Two months ago, Rafe came home early. It was so rare it almost startled you — the sound of the penthouse door opening while you were still awake cleaning of leftover Chinese food form the counters. For a couple years now, Rafe only came home from the office after you fell asleep, leaving again before sunrise like a ghost you were married to but never truly touched. That night felt different. Softer. Almost familiar. You reminded him that tomorrow was your wedding anniversary. You tried to say it casually, but your chest tightened as you spoke. He’d forgotten the last few. And each time he promised it wouldn’t happen again. That the next would be different. That you mattered. “I’ll be there,” he said, kissing your forehead like muscle memory. “For you.” You wanted to believe him but the next day came and went like a breeze in the air. There were no calls. No flowers.No Rafe. Just an ache in your heart tearing you in half. By nightfall, the truth settled heavy in your stomach — the same one you’d swallowed year after year. He forgot. That night, the bathroom floor was cold beneath your legs as you sat there silently breaking apart. You pressed your hand to your mouth to keep the sobs from carrying through the penthouse, tears dripping onto the rock on your hand you once thought symbolized forever. And then — something in you went still. You stood, wiped your face with a numbness, and packed a suitcase without hesitation. Clothes. Documents. The things that mattered. Your hands shook when you slipped the wedding ring from your finger, the oval diamond and gold band catching the light like it was mocking you. A tear fell as you placed it beside your wedding photo on the nightstand. Then you walked out and didn’t dare to look back because if you did you’d want to stay. You woke the next morning in a hotel room that smelled like detergent and unfamiliar air. Your phone was lit up — missed calls. Voicemails. Rafe’s name over and over until it blurred together.