The last thing I found was a photo album, buried at the bottom of the bedroom drawer. It was thin—barely anything to it.
The first page was where Yvette and I had met.
A party arranged by mutual friends. In the photo, she sat in a corner, the lighting dim around her. Her profile was soft, but her eyes had a haze to them, gazing at something beyond the frame that I couldn't name. That air of detachment tinged with quiet melancholy—it had drawn me in completely.
The next few pages were scattered snapshots from when I was pursuing her.
The flowers I sent—she accepted them with a polite smile.
The movie I took her to—she fell asleep in the theater.
The meal I fumbled my way through cooking—she took one bite, said it was fine, not bad.
In every single photo, my smile was eager, earnest. Her response was always muted, distant. You could feel the difference in temperature even through the paper.
I'd told myself she was just reserved by nature. That she needed more patience, more warmth.
Further in, the wedding photos.
She wore a white gown. Beautiful. But her gaze drifted.
There was a close-up of the ring exchange—my head bowed in concentration as I slid the band onto her finger. She was looking down at the ring on her hand, her brows drawn together almost imperceptibly, her lips pressed into a thin line. That expression wasn't one of emotion. It was... struggle.
The photographer had laughed and said the bride was too moved for words. I believed him.
Now, looking again, it was unmistakable—an instinctive resistance, laced with sorrow.
The last photo was a selfie taken at home on our wedding night.
I had my arm around her, grinning from ear to ear.
She leaned against my shoulder, the corner of her mouth curved upward, but her eyes looked past the camera into some vast, hollow distance.
I closed the album. My fingertips were ice.
It had all been there from the beginning—every sign, every signal.
Her melancholy was never about her personality. Her distance was never something that could be warmed away. There had always been someone else living in her heart. A past I'd never truly been part of. An appointment she kept, the same time every year, without fail.
My place in her life was perhaps nothing more than a rest stop—somewhere to pause after her plans had veered off course.
And I'd mistaken it for the destination.
Today, I finally understood. Seven years of what I thought was a loving marriage had been nothing but a carefully woven lie.
I placed the album in my suitcase and zipped it shut.
I looked around the house I'd lived in for seven years.
The decor was in the Henson family's taste. The furniture was Yvette's selection. Even the paintings on the walls were the cool-toned abstracts she preferred.
My presence had never truly changed a single note of this space.
I picked up my phone and called a friend.
"Finished watching?"
"Yeah." My voice was steady. "I need you to draft a divorce agreement for me."
"You sure about this? What about assets?"
"I'm walking away with nothing." My tone was calm. "The house, the car, the savings—it's all under the Henson name or hers."
"I didn't bring much into this marriage to begin with. I'll take what's mine and go. There's nothing to divide."
Silence on the other end for a few seconds. "You're letting her off too easy. She's the one who cheated. At the very least—"
"No need." I cut him off. "The faster the better. Keep the terms simple. All I want now is my freedom."
I hung up and sank back into the couch.
Outside the window, the sky had gone completely dark. City lights flickered on one by one. Another New Year's Eve was approaching.
In years past, this was when I'd start preparing a dinner for one.
But tonight, I had no appetite at all.
About an hour later, my friend sent over the digital copy of the agreement.
The terms were clean and simple, exactly as I'd asked.
I read it through, signed it, and sent it directly to Yvette.
I attached only one line:
"Happy New Year. Let's divorce."
"Let's get a divorce."
