It’s been two years since that night; that night you asked him to play and you got overly emotional, causing you to tear and harden your decision into letting him free to walk back to his previous life.

He misses his old girlfriend. He remembers the day they both cried in each other’s arms because they had to part. He recalls the promise he made to visit her whenever he could, though it would possibly count as cheating. For the first half year, he never felt guilty in what he did, making time to visit his one true love.

About a year in, he started really taking a notice of you. You never questioned his late comings or what he did whenever you asked him where he had been. To him, you were naïve, but it was beneficial for him and made it easier to escape.

You always had a smile on your face even though he could see the sadness cloud through your eyes. Your fingers would unconsciously tuck some hairs behind your ear if it ever fell in front of your eyes. The food you made was always amazing and he was reminded of his mother’s cooking.

He started falling for your little quirks, a smile curving on his lips as he watched you dance to songs in your head and hum whatever violin piece he had played some nights before. He fell in love whenever your eyes sparked in happiness. He had taken you to the amusement park one day and found himself basking in your rare happiness.

And soon, he had forgotten about his first love.

Because now, you were what mattered to him.

Recently, he couldn’t help but feel you were distancing yourself. He had become more touchy with you lately, giving you back hugs and making butterflies erupt in your stomach.

You had thought he was just attempting to get used to what he had to live with.

You were cooking hand-made noodles when arms sneaked around your waist. The action made you giggle a bit before continuing to cook and relishing in the feel of his scent surrounding you and his chin on your shoulder. You turned your head to the side to give him a chaste kiss on the cheek and your senses tingled as you felt his face widen in a grin.

Soon, the smile fell.

You knew he wanted to go back to his lover.

You always knew where he went. Whenever he came back late in the beginning of the marriage, you knew it was because he had gone out to see her. That was okay with you because you had learned to love and accept that his heart belonged to someone else.

Tonight is the night you would leave. You already packed your essentials in a suitcase without him knowing and rented an apartment about twenty minutes away, but within walking distance to your job. Your clothes were organized to make easy packing. There is enough food for him in the fridge to last about two weeks and you will drop by with more every two weeks. The divorce papers are in your purse, waiting to be signed and handed to your lawyer.

Dinner is a calm event, as normal. He goes to take a shower as you wash the dishes. As your hands scrub and slowly wrinkls in the soap suds, you take a shuddering breath. You can do this. You will do this.

Anything to make him happy.

Soon, your mind drifts off into a fantasy land as you subconsciously drained the sink and rinsed off the dishes and silverware. In your muddled state as you bring them to the cabinet to let them dry, your hand slips and you watch in horror as the plate breaks in shards of all sizes on the tile floor in a glass-breaking noise. The clamor rings through your ears as you step back instinctively with a gasp caught in your throat. You shakily bend down to pick up the shards and hiss as they pierce your skin, your blood staining the ivory porcelain. Your teeth bite your bottom lip as a way of pushing back the pain and you collect all the larger pieces before disposing them in the trashcan.

With your hands still bleeding, you slowly make your way to the closet and grasp the handle of the broom and sweep the remaining pieces off the floor and into a dustpan before joining the larger pieces. After placing the broom back, you wash your hands under the faucet. Once your hands are free of stains, you push down the nozzle and stumble backwards, only to bump into Henry, who’s arms slide around your waist for the second time tonight and hands holding yours so he can examine them over your shoulder.

“You clumsy girl,” he mutters under his breath affectionately. He quietly opens the first-aid kit and tends to your wounds as you held back tears.

She probably isn’t clumsy like you.

She is most likely perfect.

The perfect woman for a perfect man. What could be more fitting?

“I’m sorry,” you say quietly and gently remove your hands from his gentle grasp, only to have them be recaptured and tended to once more.

When he finishes applying bandages, he takes your hand and lightly swipes his lips over the backs of both hands. “I’ll be here,” he assures you under his breath.

You nod dumbly.

I can do this.

-

-

You watch his chest rise and fall in his deep slumber as a sad smile pulls at your lips. Everything is packed. All traces are gone. Your photos are gone. The only photos left in the house are single ones of him.

You now only exist in memory.

But not for long.

You gently lay the divorce papers on his desk with the letter in an envelope on top of it.

This is it.

You are out of the bedroom when you spin your head back.

Just one more look.

You twirl back around and exit.

-

-

Henry wakes up to his arm searching for your body, only to find an empty space next to him. He frowns before deciding that you’re probably in the bathroom.

But after lying in bed for ten minutes without seeing your figure float back into the room, he abruptly sits up and whips off the covers before stalking towards the door across from the bedroom.

“________-ah?”

He doesn’t receive any responses. Maybe you went to work early.

A sinking feeling appears in his heart and he takes shuddering breaths before scolding himself for thinking such scenarios.

The house seems emptier, quieter…

Lifeless.

He searches the house with his cereal bowl and tries to ignore the fear creeping from his throat to his heart.

And then the answer lies on his desk.

Before he can drop his breakfast, he places it on an empty space, away from the other papers scattered across the mahogany table. His hand lightly tosses the envelope to the side and shakily picks up the three copies of the same page stapled together. He can barely register the tears forming in his eyes as they flit across the page, finally landing on your signature.

Unlike most divorces, you don’t ask him for anything, and for some reason, that breaks him even more.

He slams the papers down and fumbles to rip the envelope open, desperate for an explanation as to why there are damned divorce papers sitting on his desk.

Each word and of your pen in the expensive paper is branded into his brain as he sprints out of the house and locks the door behind him. He hurriedly buckles his seat belt and slams his foot on the gas pedal.

Dear Henry,

You’ve been waiting for this day for two years. Today, it’s finally come.

I’ve always known where you were whenever you came back home late. How?

Before we were forced into this marriage, I had seen you in the gardens behind your parents’ home with her, your fingers intertwined with hers. You both looked so happy. I immediately felt terrible for what was to come.

At first, I knew I would be able to fall in love with you. It was possible.

But your feelings were impossible to change.

Even though you told me you had a lot of work to do, I knew you were with her. And eventually, I made it my goal to give you that freedom to return to her.

By the time you are reading this letter, I will have already placed the divorce papers under this envelope. You can sign them and return them to the lawyer. He will contact me when you turn them in.

You may be thinking why, or you might not give a damn, I’m doing this.

It’s simple.

I fell in love.

And I would do anything to make you happy.

Enjoy your time with her. She can even move in today. All traces of me have been taken away.

Love,

___________.

P.S. I’ll be dropping off food every once in a while, unless I find that you don’t need it. Don’t worry. We won’t cross paths. Just food.

“God damn it, where are you, _____ _______?” He growls in frustration as his vehicle weaves through the busy streets.

His fingers wrap the Bluetooth device around his ear as his eyes flicker between the road and the screen on his car, his fingers searching for your number.

The dial tone resonates in his ear.

“Please pick up,” Henry pleads.

“Please…”