I spent my entire life following my best friend’s lead. Wherever she went, I followed. She applied for civil service jobs, so did I. She quit to start her own business, so I joined her company. She got married, so I married his brother. She got a divorce, so I went straight home and asked for one, too. With bloodshot eyes, she grabbed me by the neck and yelled, “I didn’t actually go through with it! Why the hell did you divorce?” I replied, “If you leave, I leave. We’ve been best friends for thirty years—when have I ever lagged behind?” 1 My name is Belinda Howard, and I am thirty-one. If you asked me what the best decision of my life was, I’d tell you it was following my best friend, Regina, blindly. In elementary school, she signed up for advanced math prep. I did too. She ended up winning a state medal, and while I walked away empty-handed, I at least learned how to solve for “x”. In middle school, she joined the swim team. I followed. She became the school champion. I nearly drowned, but hey, my lung capacity improved. When it came to picking high school tracks, she went with AP physics and calculus. I struggled through the same classes. She graduated near the top of our class, while I barely scraped by near the bottom—but being in the same classes meant I always had a front-row seat to copy her homework. When college came around, she got accepted into Boston University. My SAT scores were hundreds of points lower, but I managed to get into a small community college just a fifteen-minute bike ride away from her dorm, close enough to steal her meal-plan food. After graduation, she applied for a government job. I did too. She passed and got hired; I failed. But I ended up setting up a bagel cart right outside her office building. It felt like we were still working together, in a way. Two years later, when she quit her secure job to launch an e-commerce startup, I didn’t hesitate for a single second. I sold the bagel cart and joined her. When she made her first million, I got a slice of the pie and managed to build up a decent savings account of my own. Later, she married Jackie. Jackie had a younger brother named Chris. Regina pointed at Chris and said to me, “Belinda, he’s a good one. Go get him.” I said, “Okay.” And just like that, I got married. For thirty years, whatever path she paved, I walked. It had worked beautifully. Until that day. It was exactly 2:47 PM when Regina sent me a text. Three words: “I filed divorce.” I dropped my fork into my instant mac and cheese, not even waiting for the cheese powder to dissolve. I picked up my phone and typed back: “Wait for me.” Then I drove straight home. When I walked through the door, Chris was lounging on the couch, wearing a sheet mask and watching some trashy reality TV. Seeing me home in the middle of the day, he turned his head. “What are you doing back?” he asked. I took a deep breath, standing in the entryway, and used what I thought was my most serious, solemn voice. “Chris, we should get a divorce.” The living room fell dead silent for three seconds. Chris peeled back half the sheet mask, exposing one side of his face. His eyes blinked. Then he said, “Okay.” I froze. I thought he’d cry. Or scream. Or ask me why. Or throw something. Instead, he just said “okay”. It wasn’t a desperate, heart-shattered kind of “okay”. It was the kind of “okay” you whisper when you finally get the shipping notification for a package you’ve been waiting on for months. He actually stood up, half-masked, and ran into the bedroom to start pulling open drawers. I stood there in the living room, completely stunned, listening to him yell from the bedroom, “Our marriage certificate and tax files are in the second drawer of the entryway table! Grab them, I’ll pack a bag, and we can head to the courthouse right now.” My mouth dry, I managed to say, “You… aren’t going to ask why?” Chris poked his head out of the bedroom door, the mask still clinging to one cheek. He looked at me with an eerie, steady calm. “Belinda, if you’re actually the one initiating this, I’m not asking any questions. I’m just afraid if I ask, you’ll change your mind.” A strange, undefinable feeling crept into my chest. But there was no time to analyze it. My best friend was divorced. I couldn’t lag behind. By 4:00 PM, Chris and I were standing in the county clerk’s office. The woman behind the desk kept glancing back and forth between us. She probably thought we were acting strange—usually, couples filing for divorce carried an aura of deep-seated resentment. We looked like we were trying to get a marriage license. Chris smiled the entire time. I remained entirely expressionless. When it came time to sign, his hand didn’t shake. Neither did mine. Because I wasn’t really thinking. When we stepped out of the courthouse, Chris stood on the concrete steps, stretched his arms, let out a massive sigh of relief, and looked up at the blue sky. “God, that feels good.” I felt the weight of the divorce papers in my bag, pulled out my phone, and texted Regina. “Done. We’re still in sync.” I waited for her to send back a thumbs-up emoji. Instead, my phone rang. Regina’s voice blasted through the speaker, sounding like someone was choking her. “Belinda, what the hell did you do? You actually divorced him?” “Yeah,” I said, leaning against a handrail. “Just walked out of the courthouse.” Silence stretched for five agonizing seconds. When she spoke again, her voice held a tone I had never heard from her before. “Stay right there,” she rasped. “I’m coming to you.” Twenty minutes later, Regina’s SUV screeched to a halt in front of me. The door practically flew open. She stormed over, grabbed my collar, and pulled my face inches from hers. Her eyes were bloodshot. A vein throbbed on her temple. “Belinda,” she whispered, her voice raw. “I didn’t cheat.” “Huh?” She shook me. “I didn’t fucking cheat! Jackie misunderstood. I explained everything to him. We didn’t sign the papers. We’re still married.” My brain went entirely numb. “But you texted me saying you got divorced,” I stammered. She let go of my collar, took a step back, and covered her face with her hands. “When I sent that text, Jackie was throwing a fit, and I thought it was over. But ten minutes after I sent it, he calmed down and came to apologize. I was going to call you and tell you to ignore the text, but your phone was dead.” “…” I looked down at my phone. Do Not Disturb. I had turned it on during the drive to the courthouse because I was terrified Chris would back out if my phone kept buzzing. Regina stared at me, her expression screaming one word: “Psycho.” I rubbed my neck. She had grabbed me pretty hard. “So…” I muttered, “you guys are still together?” “Yes.” “Jackie took you back?” “Yes.” “Then what about me?” Her lips trembled. She looked at me, bewildered. “What does that have to do with me? You divorced your husband on your own. How is that my fault?” The streetlights flickered on. I stood on the courthouse steps. Holding my divorce papers. My furious best friend standing beside me. And somewhere in the distance, Chris had already taken an Uber home. At that exact moment, a cold realization washed over me. For thirty years, I had never trailed behind her. But this time, I hadn’t lagged. In fact, the line hadn’t even moved. I had just sprinted off the cliff all by myself. 2 Regina yelled at me on the sidewalk for fifteen solid minutes. I didn’t say a single word back. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to defend myself; it was that I literally had no face to do so. When she finally finished her tirade, she leaned against her car door, panting as if she had just run a marathon. “Belinda,” she breathed, “have you ever made a single decision for yourself in your entire thirty-one years of life?” I thought about it. Honestly? No. “Do you even realize what kind of mess you’re in now?” she continued. “You’re divorced. You walked away with nothing—” “Who said I walked away with nothing?” I interrupted. “Chris didn’t ask me for—” I cut myself off and pulled out my phone to check my messages. A text from Chris had arrived three minutes ago: “I keep the condo, you keep the car, and I’m taking the savings. Car keys are with the lobby doorman.” I opened our joint banking app. Balance: $4.73. I slid my phone back into my pocket. “What?” Regina asked. “Nothing,” I murmured. “You were right. Pretty much walked away with nothing.” Regina slammed her fist against the car door. She wasn’t angry with me anymore; she was angry with herself. “If I hadn’t sent that stupid text—” “It has nothing to do with you,” I said quietly. “It was my decision.” She looked at me with a complicated expression. It was probably the first time she had ever heard the words “my decision” come out of my mouth. Then the irony hit her. “For thirty years, every decision you made was because of me. And the one time you make your ‘own’ decision, it’s a divorce.” I stayed silent. She stayed silent. We just stood there under the warm glow of the streetlamp for a long time. Finally, she patted my shoulder. “Get in the car. You’re staying at my place tonight.” “Won’t Jackie mind?” I asked. She hesitated. “He… probably doesn’t know yet.” As it turned out, Jackie didn’t just know—he was literally rolling on the bed laughing when he found out. That night, as I sat on Regina’s living room sofa, Jackie walked out of the bedroom in his sweatpants to grab a glass of water. He froze when he saw me. Standing by the kitchen door with his mug, he tried to hold it in for a few seconds, but his shoulders shook, his mouth twitching uncontrollably. “Belinda,” he said, his voice trembling as he fought back a hysterical laugh. “Hey. You, uh… you want some dinner?” “Whatever,” I muttered. He turned and rushed into the kitchen. The second the door swung shut, I heard a muffled snort, like he had stuffed his face into a dishtowel to keep from howling. Then he turned the sink faucet on high to drown out the noise of his laughter. I sat on the sofa, staring at the fruit bowl on the coffee table. A single apple and an orange, perfectly placed. Regina sat down next to me, her lighter clicking three times before she finally got her cigarette lit. “What’s your plan now?” she asked. “What do you mean?” “You’re divorced, Belinda. You have no house, no savings. Where are you going to live?” “Your couch is pretty comfortable,” I said. She slammed her lighter onto the table. “I’m asking you seriously.” “I am being serious,” I said, turning to look at her. “Look at my life. When have I ever not followed you? Just tell me what to do next.” She took a deep drag of her cigarette, exhaling a cloud of gray smoke. “I’m not telling you anything anymore. Starting today, you figure out how to live your own life.” I blinked. The weight of her words hung heavy in the air. For thirty years, she had never spoken to me like that. I opened my mouth to say something, but the kitchen door swung open. Jackie walked out carrying a bowl of hot ramen, topped with a perfectly fried egg and a neat sprinkle of scallions. He set it down in front of me. “Eat up. We’ll figure out tomorrow, tomorrow.” Staring at the steaming bowl, my eyes suddenly welled up with tears. It wasn’t because I was deeply moved. It was just that he had put too much chili oil in it, and the spicy steam was hitting my face. After finishing the noodles, I lay down on the sofa. The living room lights were turned off, leaving only the tiny red standby light of the television blinking in the dark. I pulled out my phone and went to Instagram. Chris had posted a photo an hour ago. It was a glass of red wine on our—his—balcony. The caption read: “New beginnings.” I scrolled through the comments. His buddy: “Finally!” His coworker: “About time, man.” His dad: “Come stay with us this weekend, I’ll make that roast you like.” I kept scrolling. Not a single person asked him what happened. No one expressed shock. It was as if the entire world had been waiting for him to divorce me. And I was the only one who hadn’t realized it. I closed Instagram and pulled up my chat history with him. The last message was his text about the condo and the car. I scrolled up. Three days ago. He asked: “What do you want for dinner?” My reply: “Whatever.” Five days ago. He said: “Wanna see a movie this weekend?” My reply: “Can’t. Regina wants to play tennis.” Eight days ago. He sent a photo of a new blue button-down shirt he had bought. My reply: “Nice.” Just one word. I pressed the phone against my chest, staring up at the dark, invisible ceiling. A chilling thought struck me. We had been married for three years. In all that time, I don’t think I had ever initiated a single conversation. Every interaction was started by him. Every response from me was an afterthought, a half-hearted obligation. It was as if he were just an NPC in the background of my life. My entire focus, my entire universe, had been anchored to Regina. Not in a romantic way, but in a psychological one—my identity didn’t belong to me. It belonged to her. The thought made my skin crawl. I rolled over, trying to force my mind to go blank. “Sleep,” I told myself. “Think about it tomorrow.” 3 When I woke up the next morning, my back ached as if I’d been thrown down a flight of stairs. No matter how plush a sofa is, sleeping on one for a whole night is a form of torture. The sound of sizzling oil and the smell of breakfast drifted from the kitchen. I dragged myself up and walked to the doorway. Jackie was standing at the stove, flipping eggs. He glanced back at me. This time, his face was normal, the urge to laugh finally gone. “Wash up and get some breakfast,” he said. “Regina already left.” “Where did she go?” “The office,” Jackie said, looking at me like I was crazy. “It’s a Tuesday.” I checked the time. 8:40 AM. I should be heading to the office too. Wait. “Our” office. Three years ago, when Regina quit to start her e-commerce company, I had jumped right in with her. Strictly speaking, we were partners, but she was the majority shareholder and I was the minority. She made all the decisions; I just made sure they got done. I washed my face and sat down at the dining table. Jackie sat across from me, sipping his coffee, looking like he wanted to say something. “Just say it,” I muttered. He set his mug down. “Belinda, don’t take this the wrong way, but…” “But what?” “Were you and Chris already over a long time ago?” I chewed on my toast, thinking. “What does ‘over’ mean?” “You know… no feelings left.” I thought about it some more. To be honest, I didn’t know. I didn’t know what having feelings or not having feelings was supposed to feel like. In our three years of marriage, we never had explosive fights, nor were we frozen in silence. He cooked, I ate. He talked, I listened. If he wanted something, I let him have it. But spark? Longing? Worry? I had never felt any of those things for him. “I guess so,” I replied. Jackie nodded, dropping the subject. But he tapped his fork against the rim of his plate and added quietly, “Then you definitely should have divorced. But the reason shouldn’t have been because of Regina.” The words stung. I didn’t answer. I called an Uber and headed to the office. When I walked through the doors, the receptionist gave me a cheerful, “Morning, Belinda!” I nodded and walked up to the third floor. When I pushed open my office door, Regina was already there. She was sitting in my desk chair. She leaned back, her legs crossed on top of my desk, an unlit cigarette dangling from her mouth. “You’re here,” she said. “Why are you in my chair?” “Waiting for you.” She swung her legs down and pushed a folder toward me. I picked it up. It was an equity transfer agreement. The document stated that she was transferring fifteen percent of her shares to me, bringing our stakes to a fifty-fifty split. I looked up at her, bewildered. “Jackie chewed me out last night,” she said. “About what?” “He said I ruined you. He said you’ve lived like my shadow for thirty years. He said if it weren’t for me, you wouldn’t have ruined your marriage on a whim.” I didn’t say anything. “I stayed up all night thinking about it,” she continued. “He’s right. So starting today, you carry half of this company. It’s not about following me anymore. It’s yours.” She slid a pen across the desk. I stared at the document for a long time. Then I picked up the pen. And signed my name. Regina watched me, nodding in approval. She stood up, patted my shoulder, and paused at the door. “By the way,” she said, “we have a new client coming in at three today. You’re handling it.” “What client?” “A beauty brand. The parent company is handling their marketing pivot.” My hand shook, dropping the pen. “What?” She had already stepped out, her voice trailing back to me. “Handle it yourself. I’m staying out of it.” The door clicked shut. I stood by the desk, my mind spinning. I divorced my husband yesterday. And today, his company walks through my office door. What kind of twisted reality was this? I sat down and flipped through the project file. The potential client was a fast-growing cosmetics brand looking for an agency to run their digital campaigns. Under the contact info, the name was written in bold: “Chris Howard, Marketing Director.” In three years of marriage, I had never even burdened myself to memorize his exact job title. Marketing Director. No wonder he was so quick to agree to the divorce. He didn’t need me. At all. At 2:55 PM, the receptionist paged my office. “Belinda, Mr. Howard is here to see you.” “Send him in,” I said, my heart pounding. Thirty seconds later, the door opened. Chris walked in. The aura he carried was entirely different from the guy who wore sheet masks on my couch. He looked sharp, professional, and commanding. When he saw me, his steps hesitated for a fraction of a second. Then he recovered, walked over, and sat down. He placed a leather folder on the desk. “Ms. Howard,” he said, his voice smooth and professional. “I brought the revised proposal based on our last email thread.” “Ms. Howard.” He called me Ms. Howard. Yesterday, he called me Belinda. Last week, he called me hon. “Great,” I said, trying to match his tone. “Let me take a look.” I reached for the folder. My fingers brushed against his. He pulled his hand back. Fast. As if he’d been burned. I pretended not to notice and opened the file. The data, schedules, budgets, and KPIs were meticulously detailed. Every page was clean and precise. Another realization hit me. In three years, I had never once looked at him while he was working. At home, he was always in oversized t-shirts, watching reality TV. When he had to work late, he shut himself in the study, and I never went in. I turned a page and looked up. He was watching me. There was no awkwardness in his eyes, no lingering anger. Just the cool, calm gaze of a client evaluating a vendor. “Any issues?” he asked. “I need to verify the budget on page three with my team,” I said. “Other than that, looks solid.” He nodded. “Perfect. I’ll wait for your update.” He zipped his bag and stood up. Efficient. Professional. The entire meeting had taken less than ten minutes. He walked to the door, his hand resting on the brass handle, and suddenly stopped. Without turning around, he spoke. “Belinda.” “Yeah?” “Why did you ask for a divorce yesterday?” My mouth opened, but no sound came out. “Because Regina—” I stopped myself. Because I suddenly realized how incredibly pathetic and absurd that truth sounded.
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