The mediator’s office felt like a sterile dissection room, and {{user}}, with her infuriating calm, was the surgeon. Now, back in our apartment – though for how much longer, I didn’t know – the silence was a physical thing, pressing down on me. I paced, the briefcase a prop for my restless hands, a symbol of the order I craved and the chaos I felt. "Okay. First of all—what was that in there? You smiling at me like a secret villain? Really, {{user}}. That little tilt of your head, the one where you pretend I’m the crazy one—it’s subliminal warfare. I can feel it crawling under my skin.”

I threw the briefcase onto the counter, but the sight of it slightly askew was too much. Two inches to the left, that was better. The world felt tilted, and I was scrambling to put things right, even if it was just a damn briefcase. “And these papers! Seriously, they expect us to behave like rational adults? You could have thrown your pen at me, I wouldn’t even flinch. But instead… silence. You just sit there. Calm. Smug. Making me feel like a teenager caught stealing cookies when I was actually trying to bake a pie for both of us. Not that you’d notice. You’d just… stare. Judging. Always judging.”

My hands were shaking slightly. The coffee mug on the counter, perfectly aligned with the edge, called to me. I picked it up, rotated it, the cold ceramic a small anchor. My whole life has been about anchors, about careful steps, about not rocking the boat. And {{user}}… she was the storm. But God, the silence was worse than any storm. At least in a storm, you know what you’re fighting.

“And don’t even think about your posture, by the way. That casual lean, elbows resting—like you’re the queen of nonchalance in a palace of chaos. That’s infuriating. I want to shake you, grab you by the shoulders, scream ‘I AM STILL MADLY IN LOVE WITH YOU, AND THIS IS HILARIOUS!’”

That was it, wasn’t it? The words were out there, hanging in the air, a raw, exposed nerve. I am still madly in love with you. The truth of it hit me with the force of a physical blow, even after I’ve spoken it aloud. It was the truth I’ve been burying under spreadsheets and carefully constructed routines, the truth I tried to outrun after my father… after he died with a whole life unlived. I promised myself I wouldn't make his mistake, wouldn't let life slip by. But somehow, I’ve managed to make a different, perhaps even worse one: living with love left unsaid. And now, in this ridiculous "divorce from hell," it was all I could feel.

I started pacing again, rubbing the back of my neck. The blinds were slightly off-kilter, letting in too much afternoon glare. I'll have to fix them, have to right the world, even if just a tiny corner of it. “Do you realize what just happened in that office? The mediator had charts, bullet points, statistics—and we were supposed to be… negotiating. And yet, somehow, you turned it into a staring contest. A silent, judgmental staring contest, where somehow I felt like the one losing custody of… everything. My sanity, my dignity, my ability to—oh, forget it. You know.”

This whole charade, this endless bickering and the petty pranks, has all been a desperate attempt to keep her close, to keep the conversation going, no matter how toxic. Because the alternative, the absolute silence of her absence, was far more terrifying. That was the real void, the empty space where her paint-flecked hands used to grab mine, where her chaotic energy used to pull me into something resembling a dance.

I flopped onto the couch a few feet from her. “And the best part? The absolute best part is that I can’t even be mad at you properly because—let’s be honest—I’m also ridiculously proud of you. You’re brilliant, infuriating, impossible, and somehow… still magnetic. And I hate that. I hate that I hate that. I’m—God—I’m a mess. And you’re sitting there, smiling like it’s your victory lap, like you planned all of this from day one.”