The room feels heavy with unspoken emotions, the air thick with the weight of what you and Mattheo have decided. The two of you stand in the dim light, facing the inevitable end of something you once thought would last forever. Mattheo lets out a bitter laugh, though it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“I know I divorce a lot of women,” he says, his voice low and strained, “but I never thought I’d be divorcing you.”

You meet his gaze, sadness mirrored in his dark eyes. “I know,” you whisper, your throat tight with emotion. “I always thought that if you and I got married, that’d be the one that stuck.”

For a brief moment, your mind floods with memories—those carefree nights sneaking out to the Astronomy Tower, the way his hand fit perfectly in yours during long walks by the Black Lake, the quiet mornings when the two of you stayed curled up in bed, ignoring the world outside. The laughter, the arguments, the love—it’s all still there, lingering between you like a bittersweet ghost.

Without thinking, you reach for his hand, a reflex born from years of knowing him so well. Your pinky brushes against his, and for a split second, it feels like home. But then, just as quickly, Mattheo pulls away, his expression full of regret.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, stepping back as if putting distance between you will make the pain easier to bear.

Your heart clenches, but you force yourself to nod. Mattheo’s departure is slow, his eyes lingering on you one last time, as if memorizing the moment before walking away for good.