"Go ahead, Elena. Find yourself a lover. See how that works out for you." Marcus doesn't even look up from his phone as he says it. He's scrolling through something—probably texting *her*—while standing in our bedroom doorway with his jacket already on. It's the hundredth time I've threatened it. Maybe more. I've lost count over the years. "I mean it this time," I say, hating how hollow my voice sounds even to my own ears. Now he does look up. His smile is all condescension, the kind you'd give a child who insists they can fly. "Sure you do, babe. Just like the last ninety-nine times." My hands clench the edge of our dresser—*our* dresser, though nothing in this house feels like ours anymore. It's been his for years. His rules. His schedule. His other woman. "Where are you going?" I already know the answer. "Out." He pockets his phone, checks his reflection in the hallway mirror. "Don't wait up." "To see her." It's not a question. We stopped pretending two years ago, after I found the hotel receipts. Before that, it was lipstick on collars, perfume that wasn't mine, late nights that turned into early mornings. "To see my girl, yeah." He says it so casually. Like he's telling me he's going to the gym. "We've been over this, Elena. You knew what this marriage was." What this marriage *was*. Past tense. As if it died a long time ago and I'm the only one still pretending to grieve. "I'm your wife." "On paper." He shrugs into his jacket—the one I bought him for our fifth anniversary, back when I still believed in us. "Look, we both know you're not going anywhere. You threaten, I leave, you're here when I get back. It's our routine." The worst part? He's right. Every time he walks out that door, I tell myself it's the last time. I'll pack my bags. I'll call a lawyer. I'll finally, *finally* choose myself. But then he comes back with apologies that aren't really apologies, promises that aren't really promises, and I let him stay because some pathetic part of me still remembers the man he used to be. The man who brought me coffee in bed. Who laughed at my terrible jokes. Who promised me forever and made me believe it. That man died years ago. I just never had the courage to bury him. "When will you be back?" I ask quietly. Marcus pauses at the bedroom door. For a second—just a second—something flickers across his face. Guilt, maybe. Or pity. "Does it matter?" Then he's gone. I hear his footsteps down the stairs, the jingle of his keys, the front door closing with a finality that echoes through our empty house. *Our* house. Another lie. It's his house. His life. I'm just the wife-shaped decoration he keeps around for appearances. I sink onto the bed, staring at my phone on the nightstand. The screen is dark, no messages, no missed calls. Just like always. Who would I even call? My friends stopped checking in years ago, tired of hearing me make excuses for him. My mother warned me about Marcus from the beginning—saw right through his charm to the selfishness underneath. I didn't listen. Pride comes before the fall, she used to say. Well, I've fallen. I've been falling for seven years, and I still haven't hit bottom. My phone buzzes. I almost ignore it—probably just a spam message or a reminder about a dentist appointment I'll cancel anyway. But something makes me reach for it. Unknown number. *I saw him leave. Are you okay?* My heart stutters. I stare at the message, reading it three times before my brain processes the words. Someone's watching the house. Someone knows Marcus just left. Someone is asking if I'm okay, which is more consideration than my own husband has shown me in months. I should be scared. Concerned. Ready to call the police. Instead, I type back: *Who is this?* The response is immediate. *Someone who's been waiting ten years to ask you that question.* Ten years. The number sits heavy in my chest. Ten years ago, I met Marcus. Ten years ago, I was a different person—confident, ambitious, full of dreams that didn't revolve around a man who would eventually break every promise he made. Ten years ago, there was someone else. Before Marcus swept in with his grand gestures and bigger promises. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I should block this number. Delete the messages. Pretend this strange moment never happened. But I don't. *Ten years is a long time to wait,* I type instead. *You were worth the wait. You still are.* My breath catches. When was the last time Marcus made me feel worth anything? Worth waiting for, worth fighting for, worth more than the convenient wife he could ignore while he lived his real life with someone else? I can't remember. Another message: *He doesn't deserve you, Elena. He never did.* There it is—my name. This isn't random. This person knows me. Has known me. For ten years. My mind races through possibilities, landing on one that makes my pulse quicken. *Liam?* Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. *I told you I'd wait until you were ready. I meant it.* Oh God. Liam Chen. My coworker from a decade ago, back when I was still in marketing before I gave it up to support Marcus's career. Quiet, thoughtful Liam who brought me lunch when I worked through breaks. Who listened when I talked about my dreams. Who looked at me like I was the only person in the room. Who kissed me once, at the company Christmas party, and told me he was falling for me. And who I turned down two weeks later because I'd just met Marcus, and Marcus was exciting and passionate and everything Liam wasn't. Marcus was the firework. Liam was the steady flame. I chose the explosion. Never realized it would destroy me.