The Art of Letting Go

Elena stood at the kitchen sink, watching cold water run over her hands. Outside, rain streaked the windowpane like the tears she refused to cry. Marcus would be home soon, and she needed to compose herself before he walked through the door.

She turned back to the stove, where spinach wilted in the pan. So mundane, this domestic dance. She'd prepared this exact meal a hundred times—spinach with garlic, a gesture toward health they both neglected. Tomorrow she'd make something else for someone else, or perhaps no one at all. The papers sat on the counter, signed and ready.

Marcus's key scratched the lock. She smoothed her dress, forced her breathing steady. He entered carrying a bouquet of lilies, already wilting in the humidity.

"Rough day," he said, not meeting her eyes. "The client—a total fox, sharp as hell, but impossible to pin down." He laughed dryly. "Reminded me of us, somehow."

Elena's chest tightened. "Dinner's ready."

They ate in silence, save for the rain against glass. Their old cat, Juno, jumped onto the table, tail brushing Marcus's wine glass. He didn't shoo her away.

"She knows," Elena said quietly.

"Knows what?"

"That we're pretending."

Marcus set down his fork. The spinach congealed on his plate. "Is this about the promotion? I told you, it's temporary. The city—"

"It's not the city, Marcus." Her voice surprised her—steady, clear. "It's that you stopped seeing me years ago, and I just stopped noticing."

Juno purred loudly, indifferent to human heartbreak. The cat had survived three divorces between her previous owners; Elena supposed she'd survive this one too.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said, but the words were habit, not meaning.

"Don't be," she said. "Just eat. It's still good."