a hollow, carved-out ache where something once lived.
I braced myself against the table and forced myself to stand, gasping
for air.
My gaze landed on the old medicine box by the window.
Inside were the leftover heart pills from his surgery—
carefully sorted, one by one, by my own hands.
Now they sat there quietly, as if mocking me.
So this is what I saved, they seemed to whisper.
Not a man. Just a heart without a soul.
I closed my eyes, my throat tightening.
It was time to leave.
For good.
I didn’t go back to the bedroom.
I just picked up the old suitcase beside the bed.
The zipper was rusted, and when I pulled it open, it screeched—
an ugly sound, yet strangely beautiful,
like a reminder that the escape route hadn’t been sealed completely.
Night wind slipped through the cracks of the window, lifting the
curtain’s corner.
Moonlight spread across the table where the divorce papers lay—
black ink on white paper, cold as a gravestone.
I reached for it, my fingertips icy.
Five years of marriage—
nothing but a few pages of paper.
And yet I had built those years with blood and bone.
I signed my name and smiled faintly.
There was no hatred left in that smile, no resentment—
only emptiness.