Page 6 of Letting Go

Mike’s fork clinks against his plate. “Chris, right?”

I nod. Young. Male. Ambitious. ‘Strong male presence,’ Leonard said. Because apparently my uterus is a liability.

“So, what now?” he asks. “You wanna stay home for a while?”

“I thought you wanted me to stay home,” I reply, watching him closely.

“Of course I do,” he says. “But you’re so… independent. I wasn’t sure if that’s what you wanted.”

He says it like it’s a compliment. Like I’m supposed to be grateful he noticed.

“I can’t right now anyway,” I say, dragging my chopsticks through the sauce like it’s a battlefield. “I haven’t sent in my resignation yet. It was just verbal. I’m going to type one out later.”

“You gonna send it to Leonard?” he asks, casually, like we’re talking about printer paper or what colour to paint the guest bathroom.

I snort. “Out of courtesy, I should. But screw it. I’m emailing it directly to the CEO.”

He raises an eyebrow like I’m being dramatic. I don’t care.

“Whatever you think is right,” he says, standing, scraping his plate with all the flair of a man who thinks his job here is done. He sets it in the sink like that’ssome noble gesture, rinses it off like it absolves him of anything. “I’m gonna head to bed. You coming?”

“No,” I murmur, not looking up. “I’m going to write the letter.”

He nods. That’s it. Just nods. Then leaves me sitting there with cold dumplings, a half-truth in my mouth, and a scream clawing at the back of my throat.

I carry my half-eaten plate to the sink, and that’s when I see it. My reflection in the kitchen window. Dim, watery, backlit by soft recessed lighting that somehow makes me look like a ghost of myself. My own eyes feel like strangers.

Why do men cheat?

It hits me out of nowhere. Like a slap. Like the question has always been sitting in the room but now it finally dares to speak.

Did he get bored?

Was I not enough?

The words feel juvenile. Naive. But they still stick. Cling. Wrap around my throat like ivy.

It can’t be my body. I know that sounds conceited, but screw it. It’s not. I’m still the same size I was when we met- 5'6", brunette, the kind of figure that fills out jeans like a lifestyle ad. If anything, I’m fitter. I’ve been running every morning for a year, sweating out anxiety like its poison and somehow still managing tolook good doing it. And yes, I’ve seen the way other men look at me. So no, it’s not about looks.

So then what?

Did I get too smart? Too tired? Too mouthy?

Was it that I stopped laughing at his jokes when they weren’t funny?

Or that I started calling him out when he got lazy with me?

Because here's the brutal truth: I loved him better than he ever asked to be loved. I saw parts of him he didn’t even want to admit existed and held them gently like secrets I was lucky to be trusted with.

But maybe that’s the problem.

Maybe I knew him too well. Maybe I made it too real.

Maybe he needed someone who doesn’t notice the pause in his voice when he lies. Who doesn’t recognize the sudden softness as guilt. Who won’t get in his car and find out he’s full of shit.

I press my fingers to my eyes. My chest aches like grief and rage are having a knife fight inside it. I feel stupid. And furious. And… heartbreakingly numb.

I should go upstairs. Crawl into bed next to him and pretend I don’t know. Pretend I’m still the wife who believes in his made-up stories and maybe in fairy tales.

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