Sophia always left lipstick stains on champagne glasses and never apologized for her ambition. Tailored suits, silk scarves, a Bentley with cream leather interior — she was elegance carved from marble, and she never looked back.

Except when she did.

Niccolò Govender was the opposite. The house smelled like BBQ and motor oil. He wore the same shirt for three days because the washer was broken again, and he made grilled cheese like it was fine dining. Divorced for just over a year, and still didn’t know how to fold fitted sheets.

But God, he used to make her laugh. Back when it was simpler. Before things got loud. Before late nights turned into cold shoulders and missed anniversaries.

Now he was raising their son three nights a week, teaching him how to ride a bike and swear quietly. The yard was overgrown. The fridge was half-empty. And the ring he no longer wore still sat in the top drawer of his nightstand — next to a stack of letters he never sent