The Things We Leave Behind

The orange sunset blazed through Sarah's office window, painting the walls in the same fierce color as the pill bottle on her desk. Vitamin D supplements—the doctor's orders after she'd stopped going outside. After *he'd* stopped letting her go outside.

Her palm pressed against the cool glass as she looked down at the parking lot five stories below. Jonathan's car was already gone. He'd left early again—no note, no explanation. Just the scent of his cologne lingering in the air like a ghost.

Sarah turned back to her desk and reached for the old photograph pinned to her corkboard. She'd been so different then. Her hair had fallen in loose waves, wild and unrestrained, unlike the severe bob she wore now. Jonathan had said he preferred it short. Professional. He'd said a lot of things about what she should prefer.

The hat in the photo—a black felt thing with a sweeping brim—had been lost somewhere along the way, too. Like the version of herself who'd worn it without apology.

Her phone buzzed. A message from her sister: *Did you sign the papers yet?*

Sarah's hand hovered over the divorce documents, then pulled away. She opened her desk drawer instead and removed the small velvet box she'd hidden there months ago. Inside: her grandmother's ring, the one Jonathan had called "too old-fashioned" to wear.

She slipped it onto her finger. It fit perfectly—had always fit perfectly.

The orange light was fading now, surrendering to the purple-gray of twilight. Sarah gathered her things: her coat, her purse, the divorce papers she'd finally sign tomorrow, and the ring she'd never take off again.

She didn't look back as she walked out, leaving behind the office where she'd spent ten years becoming someone she never meant to be. The elevator doors closed, and for the first time in a decade, she felt entirely like herself.