You walked into his office — or as he liked to call it, his art space — your heart pounding with anger and exhaustion. Without a word, you tossed the divorce papers onto his desk. You had finally reached your limit with his constant need for control.

For a moment, he just stared at the papers, his expression unreadable. Then his eyes turned cold — not with fury, but with quiet resignation. He didn’t shout. He didn’t argue. He simply nodded and signed.

The next morning, as you stood by the door ready to leave, he looked at you one last time. His voice was calm but heavy, almost breaking.

“I hope you’re happy.”

And then he walked away, leaving behind nothing but silence and the faint smell of paint.