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24

Lena

T he office is thinning out—phones silenced, coats shrugged on, chairs scraping back as the day unravels into evening. I’m skimming emails, clearing low-priority tasks, pretending the note isn’t still in my bag.

At 5:42 PM, the email arrives.

From: Ellis Harrison

Subject: The Note

Lena,

I assume you found it. The Wexley. 7PM. Let’s discuss your future.

– E

I stare at the screen.

Not would you like to meet ?

Not can you make it?

Just a time. A place. A decision he’s already made.

I close the email, shut down my computer.

I don’t go to The Wexley. I go home.

But even as I step into my apartment, I know I still have to opt out.

I’ve merely delayed.

The lights feel too sharp, like they’re stripping something away. The silence presses against my chest. My keys hit the counter with a sound that echoes like an accusation. The familiar ache creeps up. There’s no one here, no one to come home to. I could die and it might be days, weeks , before anyone would find me.

Maybe I don’t miss him , but I miss being married.

Actually, even that’s a lie. I do miss him. Not in the romantic sense, just in the sense that I lost a very dear friend.

So I don’t sit. I don’t take off my shoes. I just stand there.

Feeling sorry for myself. Wrestling with everything and nothing. Wishing things could have been different. Wishing I could have been different.

Maybe that’s why the weight of the note in my bag pulls at me. Even here. Like it knows I’m not done with it.

Then my phone chimes, breaking the silence.

No name. Just three words:

See you soon.

The words burrow under my skin like a splinter I can’t remove.

I type a response, my fingers stiff—clean, polite, like it matters.

My apologies. I won’t be able to make it tonight.

I hit send.

No response.

Then another ping. Read. No reply.

I stare at the screen, a cold, sick sensation blooming behind my ribs.

I tell myself I made the right call.

I didn’t say yes. But I don’t think it mattered.

Not to him.