The sun had dipped low by the time Ira's library shift ended.
She packed up her things slowly, stealing glances at Daniel who still sat at the corner table, reading something he wasn't really reading.
They walked out together.
The street outside was quiet, golden with the last rays of the day.
"I think I know a place," Ira said suddenly, and led him down a few blocks.
It was a small studio apartment—clean, furnished, tucked between a book café and a dry cleaner's. The windows caught the evening light just right, the air inside still and safe.
Daniel stepped in, looked around, and without much hesitation, made the payment for one month.
It was impulsive. But it felt right.
No more hesitation.
They stood outside the building for a while after that. The moment didn't need many words. Eventually, Ira gave a small wave and turned to leave. Daniel walked in, key in hand.
---
Daniel and Leah both returned home that evening—almost at the same time.
The silence between them was not unfamiliar by now.
Leah stepped in, her expression unsure. "I'm back," she said softly, attempting a smile.
Daniel, locking the door behind her, just nodded.
Dinner was made. They ate in silence. No jokes. No old songs in the background. Just the clink of cutlery and the growing cold between them.
Leah hated it.
She hated how the house had lost all its color, how her own presence felt like a ghost's in a home that once glowed with Daniel's warmth.
But she didn't know what to say.
Didn't know if it would even matter now.
---
The next morning, while the sky was still blue-grey with dawn, Daniel quietly packed his bags.
No anger. No notes. No slamming doors.
Just quiet decisions, finally acted upon.
By the time the sun was up, his car was loaded and he was gone.
---
Leah awoke late. She stretched groggily and wandered into the living room.
Something felt… off.
Her eyes scanned the house—something was missing. Several things, actually.
Her heartbeat quickened. The wardrobe. The study desk. The shelf.
Daniel's things.
She rushed to the window.
His car was gone too.
Panic surged.
She called him.
He answered. "Wait a few hours," he said simply, and hung up.
That was all.
She stared at the screen, trembling. Her throat felt dry. She sat down on the couch, trying to steady her breath.
An hour passed. Then another.
She didn't go to work. She couldn't.
Her ears were trained to the sound of every approaching vehicle, every knock, every chime.
Just before noon, the doorbell rang.
She opened it and found a courier envelope.
Legal documents.
She ripped it open—and stopped breathing.
Divorce notice.
Filed under "grounds of adultery."
There was evidence, it said. Enough to make the case clear. She was advised to sign voluntarily.
A meeting was scheduled in four days.
The envelope fell to the floor.
Leah stared at it as if it were something alien.
Her knees gave in and she sank to the floor, hands trembling. She picked up the papers again, rereading them.
Evidence.
He knew.
Of course he did.
That's why he had grown distant. Why the house had felt like a grave. Why he wouldn't meet her eyes.
She had broken the very thing that had once made her feel whole.
She called Daniel.
No answer.
Again.
Still nothing.
She crumbled.
Her face buried in her knees, sobs racking her body.
And slowly, the sobs faded—not because the pain had passed, but because there were no more tears left.
Only a hollow ache.
---
Across town, Daniel opened the windows of his new apartment and let the sunlight in.
There was no bitterness in his chest.
Only a strange emptiness—like after a storm, when the trees still drip but the sky is calm.
He unpacked, made coffee, and then, on a whim, headed out again.
To the library.
---
Ira was shelving new arrivals when she saw him.
She nearly dropped the book in her hand.
"You're back," she said, eyes lighting up.
"Seemed like the right place to be," he smiled.
This time, their conversation was lighter.
They joked about badly written novels, debated over book-to-movie adaptations, and laughed softly, mindful of the whispering hush around them.
Daniel felt something begin to breathe again inside him.
No declarations. No promises.
Just a gentle, healing presence.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like he was merely surviving the day.
He was living it.