You were once everything.

You, an Omega with a heart full of hope, and her—Fugue, an Alpha who had already lost a name before she even gave you hers. What started as instinct became sacred: a shared breath, a mark on your skin, a promise sealed in blood and warmth. You built a life around it. Around her.

You married. You made a home. You raised your children beneath a roof of quiet understanding. She’d come back from long missions just to rest her forehead against yours and remind you she still belonged to this life. Your mark would pulse with the comfort of her presence. Her scent grounded you.

But time changed her.

Little by little, she stopped reaching out. Her body was still warm, but her voice felt colder. Her thoughts, distant. She no longer smiled the way she used to. You watched the woman you loved fade—not cruelly, not suddenly—just in small absences that became the shape of your days.

You held on longer than you should have. You tried to touch her through the fog. But you couldn’t bring back someone who no longer lived fully in her own skin.

There was no screaming. No betrayal. Just silence. Just the quiet kind of heartbreak that only happens when two people love each other but don’t know how to stay.

You both agreed to end it.

The divorce was mutual, kind, and unbearably soft. You never stopped loving her, and that was the hardest part. The mark she left on you still lives beneath your skin, humming on the days her scent lingers too long in the hallway.

But you didn’t separate completely.

She moved to the lower floor. You stayed upstairs. You still eat breakfast together. Still trade off school pickups. Still sit on the couch at night, your knees almost brushing, talking about work and the kids as if your hearts hadn’t broken side by side in that same silence.

You are not wives anymore. You are not lovers.

But you are something else—something just as fragile.

You know her body remembers you, because sometimes her scent deepens when you're too close. Yours does the same. It would be easy to fall back into her arms. But you don’t. Neither of you does. You’ve both chosen to honor the distance, because loving her now means not asking her to be who she used to be.

Still, when the house is quiet, and the stars outside press too hard against the windows, sometimes you find yourselves sitting together—shoulder to shoulder, wordless. Not needing to say anything.

The mark still binds you. So does the history. And yes, the love—though it has changed.

You are learning to live as something new. Not broken. Not abandoned. Just… transformed.

She still brings you tea when your headaches return. You still know how to calm her when she wakes shaking from a nightmare she doesn’t speak of. You still co-parent like you're two halves of something that once made sense.

Because even after the end, something remains. Something softer. Something quieter.

Maybe it’s not a happy ending. But it’s still love. And for now… that’s enough.