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"Sign here, here, and here."

That was all he said. Three years of marriage and that was all Damien Cole had for me. No real explanation. No apology. Not even the decency to sit down while he ended everything.

I looked at the folder on the table. I already knew what was inside before I touched it. Something about the way he stood there with his jacket still on and his keys still in his hand told me everything. He hadn't come home tonight. He had come to finish something. And he was doing it with the same cold efficiency he used to close every business deal he ever walked away from.

I opened the folder.

Divorce papers. Fully filled out. His signature already sat at the bottom of every single page, neat and certain, like he had been rehearsing this moment for months. Maybe he had. Damien had stopped letting me into anything about his life a long time ago so I wouldn't know.

"It's better for both of us," he said. "You can keep the apartment."

He said it the way you tell someone a meeting has been moved. No weight. No remorse. Just information being delivered to someone he had already mentally checked out on. I sat there and looked at him. Really looked at him. I searched his face for something. Guilt. Discomfort. Anything human. But Damien was already somewhere else entirely. He had been somewhere else for the better part of three years and I had spent all that time pretending not to notice.

I picked up the pen.

My hand was steady. That surprised me more than anything else about that moment. I had imagined this scene before, in the long quiet hours when he didn't come home and I sat alone eating food I had cooked for two.

In those versions I cried. I asked him what I had done wrong. I asked him if there was anything left to save. But sitting there with the pen in my hand none of that came. What came instead was something quieter. Something that felt like the last door of a house clicking shut behind you.

I signed every page without a single word.

I handed the folder back. He took it and for one brief second something moved across his face. A flicker of something I couldn't name. I decided right then it didn't matter anymore. I reached beside me and picked up my bag. I had packed it that morning, not because I had known the papers were coming but because some part of me had been counting down to this for a while. The bag had been sitting there all day like a quiet admission.

I stood up.

"Elena." His voice came out different when he said my name. Slower. Like he had just noticed something was wrong.

I stopped but I didn't turn around.

"You're not going to say anything?" he asked.