The Cat Who Knew When It Ended

The lightning flashed against the bedroom window, illuminating everything I didn't want to see: his empty side of the bed, the dinner grown cold on the nightstand, the cat staring at me from the doorway like she'd been warning me for months.

I sat up and reached for my iPhone on the nightstand. The screen lit up with another notification from Sarah—his colleague, his "work wife," the woman whose name had been appearing on his phone more often than mine. The water glass beside the bed trembled from the thunder that followed, sending ripples through the surface like the anxiety that had been pooling in my chest for six months.

The cat, Luna, jumped onto the bed and settled near my feet. She'd been sleeping in his spot more frequently lately, as if she knew something I refused to accept. Animals always knew before you did. They could sense when the warmth had left a room, when love had decayed into habit, when two people were just pretending.

Another flash of lightning. This time I saw it clearly—the reflection in the window of my own face, exhausted and hollowed out by the weight of holding everything together. How many nights had I lain awake waiting for him to come home from "late meetings," listening to the rain against the glass, convincing myself that trust was stronger than instinct?

The iPhone buzzed again. A text from him: "Staying at the office. Don't wait up."

Luna let out a soft meow and nudged my hand with her head. Her fur was warm against my cold fingers. She'd stopped waiting at the door for him two weeks ago. Some part of me had known, too.

I stood up and walked to the window, watching the lightning fork across the sky like cracks in a foundation. The water glass sat there untouched, a testament to another night I'd prepared dinner for a man who had already left our marriage in every way that mattered.

Tomorrow I would pack. Tonight, I would finally sleep.

The lightning flashed one last time, and for the first time in months, I didn't flinch.