One night, after a long, heavy silence stretched between us, I said the words that ended everything.

“Maybe we should get a divorce.”

She didn’t respond right away. She just studied my face, as if searching for hesitation.

“You’ve already made up your mind,” she said quietly, “haven’t you?”

I nodded, believing in that moment that being truthful was the same as being brave.

She didn’t break down or argue. She simply packed a suitcase that same evening, folded her clothes with care, and walked out of our apartment with a quiet grace that still lingers in my memory.

The divorce moved fast — clean, efficient, almost clinical. When it was over, I told myself we had done the sensible thing, that sometimes love ends without anyone being the villain, and that letting go was the healthiest path forward.

Standing in that hospital hallway two months later, I finally understood how wrong I had been.

She looked frail, her hair cut short in a way she never would have chosen before. Her shoulders curved inward as if she were carrying a weight no one could see.

I walked toward her, my legs numb, barely feeling like my own.

“Serena?”