I'm standing in the county clerk's office for the third time this month, and Marcus isn't here. Again. The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting everything in that sickly government-building yellow. I've memorized every crack in the linoleum floor, every outdated poster on the walls about marriage licenses and civil unions. The clerk—same woman as last time—gives me a look that's half pity, half annoyance. "Ma'am, we close in ten minutes." "I know." My voice sounds hollow even to my own ears. "He's just running late." She doesn't believe me. I don't believe me either. My phone buzzes. Finally. *Can't make it. Emergency. I'm so sorry, Claire. Tomorrow, I promise.* No explanation. No call, just a text. Like picking up our marriage license is the same as canceling a dentist appointment. I walk to my car on autopilot, that text burning into my retinas. Three weeks ago, it was because Vanessa's flight was coming in and he needed to pick her up from the airport. Two weeks ago, she'd been in a car accident—nothing serious, but he had to be there. And now this. Tomorrow, he says. Like tomorrow will be different. Like Vanessa won't need him tomorrow too. I drive home to the apartment we share, the one with the ring on my finger and the wedding dress hanging in the closet and absolutely none of his attention. Marcus won't be back until late—he never is anymore. Not since she came back to town six months ago. Vanessa. His college girlfriend. His first love. His everything, apparently. I pour myself a glass of wine I don't want and sit down at his desk. I'm not snooping—that's what I tell myself. I just need to check our shared calendar, see if he actually remembered to block off time for the license tomorrow, or if that was another empty promise. His laptop is still open, password already entered. The email tab is right there. I shouldn't look. I know I shouldn't look. We've been together for four years, engaged for eight months. Trust is everything, right? But my hand is already on the mouse. His inbox is normal—work emails, spam, a reminder about his dentist appointment that he'll actually keep because it's for him, not us. I'm about to close it when I see the folder. Just a letter V. My heart knows before my brain does. I click it. The folder contains 847 emails. All to the same address. All to Vanessa. The most recent is from this afternoon: *On my way. She's at the clerk's office but I'll make an excuse. I can't keep doing this to her, but I can't lose you again either.* My hands are shaking so badly I nearly drop the wine glass. I scroll down. Last week: *I know you said we should stop, but I can't. I've tried. God, V, I've tried so hard to love Claire the way she deserves, but then I see your name on my phone and nothing else matters.* Last month: *She asked me again if I'm happy. I lied. I'm so tired of lying, but what am I supposed to say? That I'm marrying her because you wouldn't take me back? That every time I kiss her, I'm wishing she was you?* Six months ago: *You're moving back. Jesus, V. I don't know if I can do this. I'm engaged. I'm supposed to be building a life with someone else. But the second I saw your name in my messages, it was like the last three years didn't even exist.* I keep scrolling, watching my entire relationship unspool like a lie. Two years ago: *Claire said she loves me today. First time. I said it back because that's what you're supposed to do, right? But the words felt wrong in my mouth. They're your words. They've always been your words.* Three years ago: *Met someone. She's nice. You'd probably like her. Maybe this is good—maybe she'll help me forget you. Maybe I can finally move on.* Four years ago, right when we met: *Started seeing this girl from work. Claire. She looks at me like I hung the moon. It's nice being someone's first choice for once. Even if you're still the only choice that matters.* The wine glass slips from my fingers, red liquid spreading across his desk like blood. Four years. Four entire years, and I was never anything more than a placeholder. I hear his key in the lock around midnight. He comes in smiling, like he hasn't just stood me up for the third time, like he hasn't been writing love letters to another woman our entire relationship. "Hey, babe. Sorry about today. Crazy day at work." The lie rolls off his tongue so easily. "But I already called the clerk's office. We're all set for tomorrow, one o'clock. I promise." I'm sitting in the dark, laptop still open in front of me. "Claire? You okay?" I should confront him. I should throw the laptop at his head. I should scream and cry and demand answers. Instead, I hear myself say, "Yeah. Just tired." "Tomorrow will be better." He kisses the top of my head, and I feel nothing. "Get some sleep." He heads to the shower, and I sit there in the dark, 847 emails burning behind my eyes. Tomorrow won't be better. Tomorrow, Vanessa will need something, and he'll choose her again. Next week, next month, next year—it will always be her. I open my phone and create a new note. *30 Days.* Thirty days to get my affairs in order. To quietly move my money, pack my things, find a new place. Thirty days to plan my exit from a life that was never really mine. And then I'm gone. He'll come home one day, and I'll be a ghost. No forwarding address. No explanation. Just gone. Let him write emails about that.