As your senior from school and an old friend, I could hardly stand by and do nothing."
"You're a grown woman. Can't you show a little sense? Stop throwing tantrums over every petty little thing."
Sense.
I looked at the man in front of me.
Seven years together.
I'd followed him from a leaky basement studio to a luxury apartment.
I'd eaten instant noodles beside him through all-nighters spent grinding out proposals.
On one frigid winter night, when his fever spiked to a hundred and four, I'd carried him on my back for a mile and a half to the ER.
And now he was telling me to show some sense.
"Fine. I'll be understanding."
I looked him straight in the eye and said it, word by word.
Timothy froze.
He probably hadn't expected me to give in so easily.
The irritation drained from his face in an instant, replaced by a mild, gentle expression.
He reached out to pull me into a hug.
"I knew you were always the reasonable one."
I turned my body lightly to the side, slipping out from under his hand.
"I'm exhausted. I'm going to bed."
That night, I slept in the spare bedroom, and I locked the door.
The next morning, I called for a courier early and shipped two cardboard boxes off to my new company in another city.
When Timothy got up, I was sitting on the couch checking the route to the train station.
"I've got meetings at the branch office today. I probably won't be home tonight."
He said it while knotting his tie in front of the mirror.
I already knew. Sheila was going to the branch office today to work on the project.
"Mm." I didn't even look up.
He put on his shoes, walked to the door, rested his hand on the handle, and suddenly paused.
"Oh, right. Next week's your birthday. What do you want? I'll order it ahead of time."
"No need. I've already got everything arranged." My tone was flat.
Timothy didn't catch anything off. He just assumed I'd gotten over my sulk.
"Good, then. Once I get through this busy stretch, I'll spend some real time with you."
The security door slammed shut with a bang, and the apartment went completely silent.
I stood up and tucked the divorce papers I'd signed alone the night before, along with the spare key to the front door, under the coffee table.
I pulled out the little suitcase I'd packed long ago and took one last look around the apartment I'd lived in for three years.
There was only an overwhelming, weightless sense of relief.
The elevator doors slid slowly shut.
With a soft chime.
My phone buzzed.
It was a text from Timothy: "I'm at the office. Sheila said she wants the cake from that place in the East District, so I'll grab some on the way.
I'll order your birthday cake while I'm at it. What flavor do you want?"
I looked at that line on the screen.
Then I tapped Block.
My seven years of youth were officially over.
