Divorce didn't make me your ex

LUNA

I close the suitcase with a deep, frustrated sigh. The zipper slides smoothly to the end, locking not only the clothes but also sealing off the last remnants of what once was my marriage. I pick up the divorce papers from the dresser and walk toward the housekeeper, extending the envelope.

“Give this to Mr. Montesino, please.” My voice comes out low. “Tell him to sign it and not to worry about his precious fortune, because I don’t want a single cent of what’s his.”

She hesitates, holding the envelope as if it were burning her hands. Her eyes beg me for mercy.

“Mrs. Montesino, at least wait until he arrives…” her plea sounds like a last thread of hope, but I only smile — a sad and determined smile.

“I won’t be a Montesino anymore, Lita. From today on, I’m Luna Bexter again. And as for waiting for him to come…” Thalita knew better than anyone that I had already waited too long for him.

I look at the clock on the wall. 4:59 p.m. My heart beats slow, heavy. With each passing second, expectation dissolves into certainty. The deal was simple: if he wanted to stop me, he had to be here by 5:00. Ace probably doesn’t believe I was serious.

I’ve told him so many times that I would leave, looking straight into his eyes, searching for any sign that he cared. I never found one. But I’m tired now — tired of waiting for him and of trying to reach him. On the day I married Ace, I thought I was the happiest woman alive, but he took it upon himself to make every day after that miserable, and I can’t live like this anymore. I loved him more than I loved myself — I still do — but I decided it was time to go when I could no longer find a reason to stay.

This love hurts me more than it comforts me, saddens me more than it makes me happy, wears me down more than it strengthens me, and drains me more than it fills me.

“Goodbye, Lita.” I hug her and turn toward the exit.

The hand of the clock moves.

15 seconds left.

I breathe deeply.

14 seconds.

My fingers touch the handle of the suitcase.

13 seconds.

The cold leather against my skin reminds me of what’s happening.

12 seconds.

This time, I’m leaving.

11 seconds.

My feet move.

10 seconds.

One step. Then another.

9 seconds.

My throat tightens, but I don’t stop.

8 seconds.

My hand glides over the dark wooden door.

7 seconds.

I close my eyes for a moment.

6 seconds.

If I heard his footsteps running toward me, would I hesitate?

5 seconds.

If I heard his voice calling my name, would I turn back? I don’t know anymore.

4 seconds.

I turn the doorknob.

3 seconds.

The cold metal against my palm sends a shiver through me.

2 seconds.

My heart still hopes for a miracle. Still hopes the door will open and he’ll be there, breathless, begging me to stay. But everything remains silent.

1 second.

The final chime of the clock echoes through the house.

5:00 p.m.

I press my lips together, my breath heavy. He didn’t come. He accepted our separation. But that’s what I expected, wasn’t it?

I take the first step outside. The cold air of the street wraps around my skin, raising goosebumps over every exposed inch. I take a deep breath, trying to absorb my new reality.

It’s over.

I walk slowly through the garden. Every leaf swaying in the wind feels like a farewell. My suitcase drags behind me, leaving a trail in the ground as I go.

I don’t look back.

I told him that if he didn’t come home, I would leave for good. And this time, I’m keeping my promise.

I’m setting you free, Ace Montesino.