At two in the morning, while a tired ER resident was looping black thread through the split skin on my forehead, my husband, Luke, updated his Instagram. The photo showed his colleague, Lexie, slouched in the passenger seat of his car, cradling a warm paper cup. His caption was dripping with mock-exasperation and cheap affection: “Chauffeur duty, round twenty. Too drunk to remember where she parked. I swear I don’t know what to do with her.” It had been posted at one-thirty. Exactly when my sedan was crumpled on the shoulder of the dark interstate, thirty miles outside the city, and I was clutching a blood-soaked napkin to my brow, dialing his number for the thirty-third time. I had bargained with God in the dark. I told myself that if he answered just once, I would turn down the massive promotion at our Chicago headquarters. I would stay here, in Boston, and fight for our marriage. But he never answered. He only sent a single, clinical text. “Lexie is too drunk to get home safe. I’ll be back later. Be good.” He was terrified for Lexie’s safety. He had no idea I was stranded on a pitch-black stretch of highway with a shattered windshield and a head wound. In our single year of marriage, he had played late-night chauffeur for Lexie twenty times. I had worked late sixty-eight times. He had never picked me up once. My mind drifted back to the worst of those nights—when a drunk stranger had cornered me in our office’s underground parking garage. I’d been so terrified I’d locked myself in my car and called the police. At the station, the female officer had looked at me with deep pity and asked, “Where is your husband, sweetie? Why isn’t he here?” I had forced a polite, empty smile. “He’s slammed at work. I can handle it.” Yes. I could handle it. In seven days, I would board a one-way flight to Chicago. The divorce papers waiting on my laptop were simply the final, quiet surrender. 1 At two-thirty, I finally pushed open our front door. I pulled off my heavy knit beanie, exposing the stark white gauze taped over my temple. The wound throbbed with a dull, sickening rhythm. The living room lights were blazing. Luke was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, a wet microfiber cloth in his hand, meticulously dabbing at a stain on a delicate silk scarf. Hearing the door, he looked up, a familiar crease forming between his brows. “Why are you working so late?” Then his eyes caught the bandage, and he froze. “What happened to your head?” “I bumped it,” I said, my voice entirely flat. “How are you so careless?” He didn’t ask how I had bumped it. I looked at the women’s scarf in his hands and felt too exhausted to explain. An hour ago, I had been rear-ended by a hit-and-run driver on a dark highway, my face slammed into the steering wheel. I had called him thirty-three times. And he had been cleaning silk. “You picked up Lexie tonight?” I asked, watching his face. Luke’s expression remained perfectly innocent. He lifted the scarf slightly. “Yeah. Her department was entertaining clients. She’s young, got pressured into drinking too much. She couldn’t even find her car in the dark. If I didn’t go, and something happened to her, I’d never forgive myself. The company wouldn’t either.” He paused, looking down at the fabric. “She ruined her scarf when she got sick. I brought it back to see if I could save it.” He had thought of everything for her. He treated her cheap silk with more tenderness than he treated my life. “I called you thirty-three times,” I said. My voice was so calm it surprised me. Luke blinked, pulling his phone from his pocket. He stared at the screen, a flicker of genuine guilt crossing his face. “I’m sorry, Novia. I was driving, and I didn’t want to get distracted, so I put it on silent. Next time you work late, let me know. I’ll come get you.” Next time. In a year, he had driven Lexie twenty times because “it wasn’t safe for a girl.” For my sixty-eight late nights, his only contribution had been a text telling me to “be careful.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. I simply walked past him toward the bedroom. “Get some rest,” I whispered. “I’m tired.” As the bedroom door clicked shut, my phone buzzed. It was an email from the HR director in Chicago. “Dear Novia, your transfer paperwork is officially finalized. We look forward to seeing you in seven days. Please let us know if you need assistance with relocation.” I stared at the screen and typed a two-word reply: “Confirmed. Thanks.” Seven days. That was all that remained of this marriage. 2 I woke up the next morning to a violent wave of nausea. The pain in my forehead was sharp, radiating down into my neck. I forced myself out of bed, holding the wall for support. In the hallway, Luke was already fully dressed, putting on his watch. “Luke,” I called out, my hand gripping the doorframe. My knuckles were white. “I’m incredibly dizzy. Can you take the morning off and drive me to the clinic?” He turned, and when he saw my pale face, a flash of real concern came over him. “Of course. Let me grab my keys.” A tiny, foolish ember of warmth flared in my chest. Then his phone rang. The moment he swiped the screen, his face hardened into panic. “What? Someone hit your car?” “Lexie, hey, stop crying. Deep breaths. I’m coming right now.” He hung up and looked at me, his eyes full of frantic apology. “Novia, Lexie just got rear-ended on her way to work. The other driver is some aggressive guy, and she’s hysterical. She’s just a kid, she’s terrified. I need to handle this. I’ll be back in thirty minutes to take you, okay? Just sit down.” He squeezed my shoulder, grabbed his keys, and was out the door before I could speak. Thirty minutes passed. Then an hour. Then two. By ten o’clock, the apartment was silent except for the ticking clock. I sent him a text: “Are you coming back?” Ten minutes later, a voice memo arrived. In the background, I could hear Lexie’s soft, theatrical sobbing. “Novia, I’m so sorry. The guy is being completely unreasonable, demanding a cash settlement and threatening her. Lexie is a wreck, and the police are taking forever. If you’re really feeling terrible, can you just call an Uber to the clinic? I’ll Venmo you for it later.” I stared at the message and let out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. I didn’t reply. I booked my own ride to the hospital. The CT scan revealed a mild concussion. The doctor handed me a prescription and warned me to rest, strictly forbidding any physical or mental strain. As I sat in the sterile waiting room waiting for my medication, a familiar voice called my name. “Novia? What happened to you?” It was Gavin, a close friend of ours from college. He hurried over, his brow furrowed as he looked at my bandage. “Just a clumsy accident,” I said with a weak smile. Gavin looked around the empty waiting area. “Where’s Luke? Why isn’t he here with you?” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “I actually just walked past the bistro across the street. I could swear I saw him in there with a young girl.” “He’s busy,” I said, my voice perfectly steady. “A colleague had an emergency and he had to help out. I can handle this myself.” After Gavin left, I stared up at the flourescent lights of the hospital ceiling. I realized then that when disappointment reaches a certain depth, you don’t even have the energy to be angry anymore. You just go numb. 3 Four days left. I had been cold, distant, and quiet. Luke, finally sensing the shift, had booked a table at a newly starred French bistro downtown—a place I had wanted to try for months. He said he wanted to make up for our missed anniversary. That evening, I put on the deep red dress he loved and arrived early. A few minutes later, the door opened. The polite smile I had prepared froze on my face. Luke walked in, and trailing right behind him was Lexie. “Hi, Novia! I am so, so sorry to crash your date!” Lexie wore Luke’s oversized trench coat over her shoulders. She looked tiny, fragile, and utterly innocent. “Luke told me it was your anniversary, and I told him absolutely not, but my roommate locked me out of our apartment tonight and it’s freezing. Luke was worried I’d catch pneumonia, so he insisted I come.” She tilted her head, her eyes wide. “You’re not mad at him, are you? You’re always so understanding.” Luke pulled out a chair for her, then gave me an apologetic shrug. “Novia, she was shivering on the street. I figured it’s just one more plate. We can still have a nice dinner.” I stared at the trench coat she was wearing. I had bought it for Luke just last month. “The coat…” I murmured. “Oh, Lexie was freezing,” Luke said dismissively. “I had it in the back seat. Here, let’s order.” He handed the menu to Lexie. She immediately selected three highly spiced, heavy dishes. Then she gasped, covering her mouth in mock horror. “Oh my gosh, Novia, can you even eat spicy food? I’m so selfish, I only ordered what I like. Luke, why didn’t you stop me?” Luke laughed it off. “It’s fine. Novia’s had a terrible appetite lately. Maybe some spice will wake up her stomach.” A cold weight settled in my chest. Only yesterday, I had texted him a photo of my discharge papers and medical instructions, explicitly stating I had to avoid spicy and irritating foods due to the concussion nausea. He hadn’t even opened the message. “Luke, I can’t eat spicy food,” I said, my voice devoid of warmth. He blinked, the realization slowly hitting him. “Oh… right. Your head. I’m sorry, Novia, I’ve had so much on my mind I forgot. Server, can we change those—” “Don’t worry about it,” I interrupted. Lexie’s lower lip began to tremble. “Novia, are you mad at me? If I’m ruining your night, I’ll just leave…” She scrambled to stand up, her movements dramatic enough that her arm caught her water glass. The glass tipped, splashing warm water directly onto her hand. “Ow!” she gasped. Luke immediately grabbed a handful of napkins. He snatched her wrist, his face tight with concern. “Are you okay? Is it burned? Does it hurt?” I sat there, watching them. I didn’t scream. I didn’t throw a glass. While Luke was frantically dabbing at Lexie’s hand, I quietly stood up, grabbed my purse, and walked out of the restaurant. The autumn wind outside was freezing, but this time, I didn’t look back. 4 The morning of my departure. I woke up early, folding my remaining clothes and placing them neatly into my twenty-eight-inch suitcase. In the living room, Luke was adjusting his tie in front of the mirror. “You’re going out? On a Saturday?” I asked, leaning against the doorframe. “Yeah, Lexie is moving today. Her moving company is sketchy, and she has a ton of boxes. I promised I’d help her out.” He put on his coat and walked toward me, reaching out to pat my shoulder. I took a step back, slipping away from his touch. I looked into his eyes, giving him one last, silent test. “Luke, I feel really sick today. My head is spinning, and I have this awful tightness in my chest.” My voice was quiet, dead serious. “Can you stay? Just today. Stay with me.” Luke paused. For a second, a flicker of hesitation crossed his face. Then his phone rang. The moment he answered, Lexie’s crying voice leaked through the speaker. “Luke… the movers are demanding double the price, and they’re getting aggressive… I’m so scared, please get here…” The hesitation vanished from Luke’s face instantly. “Don’t argue with them,” he said into the phone. “I’m on my way.” He hung up and turned to me, his voice returning to that patronizing, soothing tone. “Novia, you heard her. She can’t handle those guys alone. Just take your meds and rest. I promise I’ll be back by noon to check on you, okay?” I watched his hurried retreat. The final, microscopic spark of hope in my heart went cold. “Okay,” I whispered. The front door slammed shut. I walked over to the coffee table and placed the signed divorce agreement right in the center, where he couldn’t miss it. Next to the agreement, I laid out two documents. One was my ER diagnosis for a concussion and head trauma. The other was the police report from the hit-and-run on the highway. As I dragged my suitcase out of the apartment lobby, I popped the SIM card out of my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed it into the trash can on the corner. Three hours later, my flight touched down in Chicago. I slid a new SIM card into my phone. The moment it connected, iMessages began to flood the screen in a violent, unending stream.
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