The Breaking Point
The end came on a Tuesday, a day as gray and unremarkable as a tombstone. Alistair arrived at the apartment to find Saffron packing a single canvas.
"I can't do it, Alistair," she said softly.
"I'll fix it," he promised, his voice cracking. "I'll give it all up. The money, the name, everything. We'll be free."
Saffron walked over and touched his cheek. Her hand was stained with blue paint—the first she'd used in weeks. "If you give it up, you'll spend the rest of your life wondering if I was worth the sacrifice. And if you keep it, you'll spend your life resenting the fact that I don't fit in your parlor. Either way, we lose."
"I love you," he said, the words sounding like a plea.
"I know," she whispered. "That's why I'm leaving. Because if I stay, I'll turn into one of those porcelain dolls you keep in your foyer. And you'll forget why you loved me in the first place.