For Leah, the days blurred together.
The world around her—once rich with colour and sound—now felt dim, like someone had turned the saturation all the way down. The rooms in her home echoed too much. Her own breathing seemed loud. Daniel's absence left a silence that screamed.
Still, the next morning, she woke up and dressed for work. Not because she wanted to.
But because the alternative—sitting alone in a house she had unknowingly emptied of love—was unbearable.
She didn't wear makeup. Didn't try to fix her hair. Her reflection in the mirror looked like someone else. Or maybe, someone she had always been—just now unmasked.
At the office, everything looked the same.
Desks. Coffee machines. Emails. Clocks ticking on fluorescent-lit walls.
And Chris.
He approached with his usual confidence, dropping a light joke, reaching out to touch her arm—but she stepped away before he could.
He noticed.
The day went by like a dream she couldn't wake up from. Paperwork, calls, empty chatter. But she heard nothing. Felt nothing.
Until the end of the day.
Chris found her again, by the elevator.
"Hey… you've been really distant. What's going on?" he asked, leaning casually against the wall, but his smile faltered slightly. "Everything okay?"
Leah looked at him—really looked at him—for what felt like the first time.
And what she saw wasn't love. It never had been.
She took a breath, voice low and even.
"Do you love me?"
Chris blinked. "What?"
"Do you love me?" she repeated, eyes unreadable.
He hesitated—too long.
Then, finally: "Of course I do, babe. Come on. You know that."
But she didn't.
And deep down, she knew he didn't either.
There was no weight behind his words. No tremble in his voice. Just a script, delivered with practiced ease.
She stared at him, her heart cold.
"If I divorced Daniel," she asked slowly, "would you marry me?"
He laughed at first. Nervously. "Whoa, whoa, okay. That's—look, Leah, don't talk crazy. Things are fine the way they are. No need to… make it complicated."
And there it was.
The truth.
It didn't even hurt. Not the way she thought it would. It just… confirmed what she had already begun to understand.
She smiled—but it wasn't kind.
It was bitter.
Mocking.
Not at Chris.
At herself.
She had given herself to a man who never saw her as more than a secret thrill.
And in doing so, she had broken the heart of a man who had seen everything in her—even when she couldn't see it in herself.
She thought back to nights when Daniel had wanted to be close and she had pulled away, cold. He never forced anything. He never grew cruel. He just kissed her forehead and whispered "Goodnight."
And she had still betrayed him.
Even on their anniversary…
She looked away from Chris, disgusted with the version of herself who had once found all of this exciting.
She whispered, more to herself than to him, "I was never anything more than a body to you, was I?"
Chris frowned, uncomfortable. "What are you even saying?"
But she didn't answer.
Because she no longer cared what he had to say.
Chris shifted awkwardly. "Look, I think you need space or something. You're being weird, and I don't want to get pulled into some drama."
He turned and left.
She didn't stop him.
---
Days passed.
Leah became a machine.
Wake. Work. Call Daniel.
No answer.
No texts. No signs. Only silence. The absence of love where it once filled every room.
She replayed memories like broken records—first kisses, late-night walks, the way Daniel would run his fingers through her hair while she read.
Now all she had was echoes.
---
Then, the fourth day arrived.
The day marked on the letter.
The legal notice sat on the dining table, papers spread like cold judgment.
She hadn't eaten all day.
The room was dim, curtains drawn. Her fingers trembled as they traced the words:
> "Irreconcilable differences." "Evidences of infidelity documented." "Request for uncontested divorce." "Sign within the scheduled date."
It felt unreal.
A punishment she had seen coming… but still hoped to outrun.
She picked up the pen.
And paused.
Her mind begged for a second chance.
Her heart knew she didn't deserve one.
Tears welled in her eyes. But there was no dramatic sobbing. No screams. Just quiet, choking guilt.
She thought of Daniel again.
His silence wasn't revenge.
It was grief.
And now, it was closure.
She whispered softly, "I'm sorry…"
But the room did not forgive her.
With shaking hands, she signed her name.
The ink bled slightly on the paper, where a tear had fallen.
It was done.