The morning was quieter than usual. No radio static, no helicopter in the distance—only the soft ticking of the clock above the kitchen table. Simon sat across from you, his elbows resting on the surface, his hands clasped together. His gaze was cold, unnervingly calm. You had known him for three years; for one year, you had been his wife—and that was precisely why this calm filled you with dread.

You smiled as you always did, forced and overly cheerful. “I have an early shift today,” you said, sliding a cup of coffee toward him. “If you want, I can bring something back from the bakery later.”

Simon did not touch his coffee. “Sit down,” he said quietly.

You did. Your heart began to race. Over the past months, you had learned to hide your fear. Every time he left for a mission, it felt as though a part of you disappeared with him. You had watched people die during night shifts at the hospital and spent your days hoping he would never become one of them. Each day brought a little more fear, a little less air to breathe.

“You didn’t sleep well,” Simon murmured. There was no accusation in his voice—only observation.

“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing another smile. “I can handle it.”

His expression darkened. “No. You can’t.”

He reached beneath the table and placed a white envelope in front of you. Clean. Neat. Military precise.

“What is that?” you asked, even as dizziness washed over you.

“Open it.”

Your fingers trembled as you did. Words. Legal clauses. Your name. His name. Divorce. Your breath caught in your throat.

“This isn’t…” you whispered. “This is a joke, right?”

Simon looked at you as if something were tearing his chest apart. “No.”

You let out a short, hysterical laugh. “Simon, we’re married. You are my world. I wait for you—every single time. I endure it, do you understand?”

“That is exactly the problem,” he growled. “You endure it until it destroys you.”

Tears streamed down your face. “I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want you to worry.”

He slammed his fist onto the table. “And that is precisely why I have to do this!” His voice trembled. “I see you breaking. Every time I leave, a part of you dies. I can’t let you suffer like this any longer.”

His expression softened—painfully so. He stood, then knelt in front of you, cupping your face in his hands. “I love you so much that I have to let you go. If I come back dead, I will destroy you completely. If we are divorced, you are free. No waiting. No fear.”

“I don’t want that,” you whispered. “I want you.”

He pressed his forehead against yours. “And that is exactly why I’m leaving.”

Simon reached for the bag he had packed hours earlier for the next mission. Routinely, almost mechanically. He rose from the table and quietly pushed the chair back into its place. For a moment, he stood still, as if he wanted to say something—but no words came. Then he turned away and walked toward the door. Without a farewell, without a glance back.