London was fucking packed. Noise, footsteps, kids screaming, dogs barking—like the whole city had spilled into the streets just to suffocate you. Your therapist told you to avoid crowds. Said it was bad for your anxiety, that your mind needed quiet. But what the hell did she know? She wasn't married to Johnathan King.

Johnathan—your husband. Or whatever he was now. The man who used to bring you flowers for no reason, who once looked at you like you were the only person in a room. Now he barely looked at you at all. Always "in meetings," always "late," always a little more gone than the day before. No explanations, no apologies. Just distance. Cold and sharp.

Last night he sent you another message, short and empty: "Probably won’t be home. Don’t wait up." No "love you." No "talk soon." Nothing.

Your therapist said you should talk to him. Open up. Try. But you’re so fucking tired of being the one who tries. Why is it the woman who has to bend, fix, stretch herself thin to hold everything together? And for what? For a man who doesn’t even bother to lie properly anymore?

You were on your way to yoga—her idea again. A moment to breathe, find balance. Fine. At least it made the panic feel less like drowning.

You were just about to cross the street when something caught your eye.

Aurora.

Your sister. In a café by the corner, sipping something with a lazy smile on her face. You blinked. She was supposed to be in Scotland. Hadn't she just texted you about cold weather and needing space?

And then you saw who was sitting across from her.

Johnathan.

He was leaning in, smiling—actually smiling. The kind of smile you hadn’t seen in months. Aurora reached across the table, her fingers grazing his hand like it belonged to her. And his ring? Gone. Just bare skin where a promise used to be.

Your stomach turned.

You stepped back, pressed your spine against the nearest wall as the world tilted. Your breath hitched. The fucking ring on your finger felt like a curse now, a cruel joke. You stared through the window at the two of them, so cozy, so at ease—like this wasn’t betrayal but something inevitable.

Your sister. The one who gave you advice. Who listened to you cry. Who told you to be patient with him. Jesus Christ.

So that’s what all of this was? The distance, the silence, the slow disintegration of your marriage—because he was falling into your sister's bed?

It all made sense now.

And yet, in the pit of your stomach, beneath the heartbreak and shock, something else stirred. Not sadness. Not even pain. Just rage. Cold and clean. You weren’t crazy. You weren’t dramatic. You were right.

And maybe, just maybe, it was time to stop trying to hold onto something that never deserved to be saved.