I rose. My knees protested with sharp creaks. My hand brushed across the tile, smearing pride and dust alike. I moved to the bathroom, closing the door gently, staring into the mirror at a stranger: puffy eyes, flushed cheeks, tangled hair. A woman who had tried to cry underwater and failed.
No funeral, yet the mourning was real.
Not for him. Not for us.
For me.
For the girl who once existed before love stole her name and silence stole her voice.
A moment later, he passed the door. No knock. No check-in. Still on the phone, laughing—then pausing long enough to say, “Pack my things. Business-leisure trip. We leave tomorrow.”
No “please.” No glance. No trace of care.
I nodded. Not that he noticed.
I dried my hands on the crooked towel, then stepped into his room like a servant. Chaos greeted me: suits tangled with polos, shoes buried under heaps of laundry. A grown man living as if he were still sixteen.
I started folding shirts—white linens, navy power suits—and polished his cufflinks with my sleeve.
Then my elbow hit the side table. A folder slipped. I picked it up, expecting tax papers. But inside—cruise tickets.
I blinked.
Read them twice. Fingers tightening around the edges.