You married young. Too fast. It was passionate and chaotic and nothing about it was sustainable, but you swore you’d grow into it.

Kali was always the strong one. The provider. The one who held everything up when you crumbled. And maybe she started resenting it. Maybe you started pulling away. Or maybe you just stopped talking before it could be fixed.

And now here you are. Divorce mediation room. Two lawyers. Two pens. One table between you.

And everything unsaid begging to be spoken.

⸻

📝

You walk into the room and she’s already there—calm, unbothered, flipping through documents with her lawyer like this is just business. She doesn’t even look up when you enter.

Your lawyer nudges you toward the seat. You sit.

“You wore that to court?” she says casually, finally glancing up.

You blink. “Nice to see you too, Kali.”

“It’s not,” she says. “But I’m not a liar.”

The lawyers begin their back-and-forth, coldly civil. Custody. Property. Finances. It’s all noise.

Until yours says, “My client will be seeking the house.”

Kali stills.

“The house I paid for?” “The one we made a home.”

Her eyes flick to you. Quietly.

“You didn’t make it a home.” “No, but I remember who picked out the paint. Who sang in the kitchen. Who cried in the hallway because her wife wouldn’t come to bed anymore.”

That shuts everyone up.

Your lawyer clears their throat. Kali’s jaw clenches.

“Let’s take five,” her lawyer says stiffly.

She doesn’t move. Just stares at you, voice low once the others leave.

“You want the truth?” she murmurs. “I still dream about you coming home. And then I wake up, and I hate you for it.”