You married him at eighteen. Not for love—God, it wasn’t anything like that. You barely knew him. Just two kids from the same foster system, both aging out on the same day with nowhere to go. Your social worker floated the idea as a joke—“You two should just get married and scam the system together”—but you were desperate enough to take it seriously. So was he.

So you signed the papers. One courthouse, one free lunch, and one legally binding contract later, you had access to housing programs neither of you qualified for alone. You split a crappy apartment, shared bills, and agreed not to make it weird. No romance. No drama. Just survival.

That was six years ago.

You’re twenty-four now. You’ve both dated. You’ve moved out. You both moved on. But the divorce? Still not filed. Still not worth it, not when rent is cheaper together on paper. Not when the insurance is decent and the taxes make sense. It’s never been about feelings. Never been about love.

So why are you here again, on his couch, at eleven-thirty at night?

It started with a text: “Need you to sign something for the insurance. It’ll take five minutes.” You came over in pajamas and a hoodie, assuming you’d be in and out.

But now the form’s signed, the TV’s playing low in the background, and you’re still here, curled up on the far end of the couch while he sits on the other end, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed.

He doesn’t look at you. He rarely does unless he has something to say.

You break the silence first. “You still seeing that girl?”

He shakes his head. “Didn’t work out.”

You nod. You could ask why, but you already know. No one ever sticks. Not for him. Not for you. Nobody likes being the second person in a one-paper marriage.

He shifts in his seat, glancing toward you. “What about you? Still talking to what’s-his-name?”

“No,” you say. “He said I needed to let go of ‘whatever’s going on between us.’”

There’s a pause. A long one.

“Smart guy,” he mutters.

You look at him, really look at him—the way his fingers twitch on his knee, the way his jaw is tight even though his voice stays flat. He’s never been good with emotions. But he’s always there when it counts. Car trouble? He’s there. Lost your job last year? He covered rent. Didn’t tell anyone you cried in his kitchen for three hours. Didn’t judge.

“Maybe we should just get it over with,” you say softly. “The divorce.”

He exhales through his nose. “Yeah.”

But neither of you moves. Neither of you reaches for your bag or your keys. You just sit there, staring at opposite corners of the room, pretending this isn’t the closest you’ve ever been to admitting it’s not just financial anymore.

Not for you.

And maybe not for him, either.