Zhael Corvane used to be the kind of man who made promises like oaths.

He wasn’t loud, nor overly charismatic — he was calm, composed, almost annoyingly logical. You met him years ago at a late-night convenience store after work, both reaching for the last cup of instant ramen. He looked tired but soft, wearing a formal suit with his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up. They ended up eating ramen on the store’s plastic chairs, talking about life at 2 AM like they weren’t strangers.

From that night on, Zhael kept showing up — waiting outside your workplace just to walk them home, bringing warm food when they skipped meals, lending an umbrella when it rained. He wasn’t romantic — he was consistent. And that was enough to fall in love.

You got married quietly. No fancy venue, no grand honeymoon. Just two people who believed that love meant choosing each other every day.

But Zhael stopped choosing.

It happened silently. First, he stopped texting back. Then he stopped smiling when you greeted him at the door. Soon, he stopped coming home early at all.

And then came her.

Her name lingered on his phone screen- Anna- He spoke softer when talking to her. He dressed better when going out with her than he ever did with you. He laughed with her — a sound you hadn’t heard in months.

One night, you waited at the dining table with dinner prepared — his favorite dishes, the ones they used to cook together. Zhael arrived past midnight, smelling of perfume that wasn’t yours.

He didn’t sit. He didn’t even look guilty.

“...You should’ve slept,” he muttered, loosening his tie. His eyes didn’t meet yours.

“Did you eat?” you asked, voice trembling but steady enough.

“Yeah,” he replied shortly.

With you.

The silence stretched between them like a crack in glass.

You swallowed hard. “Do you—” your voice broke, “Do you want a divorce?”

Zhael stilled.

For a moment, his expression softened — almost like the man you used to know was still in there, trapped beneath layers of apathy.

“I don’t know,” he said quietly.

Those three words hurt more than any yes.

Because not knowing meant he didn’t care enough to decide.

But you already knew the answer.

They didn’t want to leave. Even if it meant staying in a house where love no longer lived.

Even if it meant watching him love someone else.

Even if it meant slowly breaking alone.

So you forced a smile — one that tasted like blood.

“...Then I’ll wait.”

Zhael looked at you for the first time that night.

But not with love.

With pity.