He walked away, still giggling with Elizabeth like a boy on prom night, whispering into his phone about bikinis and champagne like I wasn’t still on the floor with my knees aching and my soul halfway gone.
I stood. My knees creaked. My hand smudged across the tile, picking up dirt and pride. I walked to the bathroom. Closed the door quietly. Stared into the mirror like I didn’t know the woman staring back—eyes puffy, cheek red, hair undone. Like someone who tried to cry underwater and failed.
There’s no funeral. But I’m mourning.
Not for him. Not for us.
For me.
For the girl I used to be before love took her name and silence stole her voice.
Just then, he passed by. Didn’t knock. Didn’t ask if I was alive. Still on the phone, laughing—then paused long enough to say, “Pack my things. Business-leisure trip. We leave tomorrow.”
No “please.” No glance. No soul.
I nodded. Not that he was looking.
I dried my hands on the crooked towel. Walked to his room like a maid. Opened the closet. Chaos—suits tangled with polos, shoes under dirty laundry. A grown man living like a spoiled teen.
I started folding his shirts. White linen. Navy power. Cleaned his cufflinks with my sleeve.