5

5

Stella.

Packing a life into boxes is supposed to be quick if you don’t have much left. Or so people say. But nobody tells you about the quiet, aching way time stretches, every minute thick with memories you don’t want but can’t escape. The sun was barely up when I began, washing the bedroom in watery gold, everything sharp and brittle with that cold, early light. My suitcase waited, open-mouthed and accusing, in the center of the room. I found myself staring at it the way you stare at a blank test you know you’re going to fail.

I moved like I was underwater. Sweater, jeans, toothbrush, charger, all landing in neat little stacks that meant nothing and everything. I left most things behind; the fancy dresses I bought hoping to impress him at some Marwood party, the designer heels that always pinched, the jewelry Alex’s mother gave me that never felt like mine. I kept the essentials. A threadbare T-shirt that smelled like my mother. The book I’d read every time I was lonely, pages soft from so many readings. My old photo of Eleanor, slipped between the folds of a dress I could actually breathe in. You’d think leaving would be dramatic. But there’s a strange silence to it, as if the house itself was holding its breath.

I tried not to look at the wedding photo on the dresser, the one where I was smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. Where Alex was… well, I never could quite read what he was thinking, not even then. I looked different now, anyway. Older. Less shiny. Still standing, though, and maybe that was what mattered.

When I got to the bottom drawer of the nightstand, I paused. The divorce papers were right where he left them. I picked them up and sat on the edge of the bed, pen in hand. The bed groaned under my weight. I waited to feel some wave of grief, but what hit me instead was relief. A bittersweet, soft-edged kind of freedom. Signing my name felt less like surrender and more like reclaiming something I’d lost, quietly and for myself.

It didn’t erase the pain. But it loosened it. Like opening a window after months in a room with no air.

After that, I zipped my suitcase, smoothed the bed, and did one last, slow circuit around the room; brushing my hand over the dresser, tracing my finger along the window sill, taking in the faded mark on the wall from the night we tried to assemble that Ikea bookshelf together and gave up laughing. I left the mark. I left everything.

I wasn’t running away. I was just done fighting for something that didn’t want me back.

Downstairs, the house was still and echoey, smelling faintly of Alex’s cologne and the candles I’d lit for all our anniversaries. I should have left quickly, quietly, but a kind of stubbornness rooted my feet to the floor. One last walk through the life I built. One last goodbye.

And of course, the universe couldn’t even let me slip away in peace. Alex was there, in the living room, looking as tired as I felt. His hair was damp, as if he’d just showered off the night before, but the darkness under his eyes said he hadn’t really slept. He wasn’t expecting me. Maybe he thought I’d already left, or maybe he just didn’t care enough to check.

He didn’t look up right away. He was shuffling through a stack of emails on his phone, his glass of wine on the coffee table, half-drunk. It was alwayss red wine these days. I wondered if he drank it to forget me.

I stood in the doorway, suitcase in hand. “I didn’t know you were here,” I said, voice steady, almost bored, as if I hadn’t been rehearsing these words for days. “The documents are signed.”

He looked up, startled. For a second, he just blinked at me, like I was a hallucination. Then he stood, pushing aside the emails, crossing the room in two long strides.

“You really signed them,” he said, almost disbelieving. He took the envelope from me, his fingers brushing mine for a split second. His touch used to make my heart flutter. Now it just made me tired.

He rifled through the pages, reading every line, maybe hoping to find some mistake, some proof that I’d changed my mind. I almost pitied him, the way he searched for something that wasn’t there.

“I’m not staying,” I said before he could ask.

The maid appeared, ever efficient, with a tray of wine glasses. She poured two, the deep red liquid catching the light. She offered one to me with a hopeful smile.

“Don’t bother,” I said gently, stopping her. “Not tonight.”

The maid hesitated, looking from me to Alex, then took the glass away. I could feel his gaze on me, weighing, measuring, trying to read between lines I wasn’t writing anymore.

He set the divorce papers down, a faint frown between his eyebrows. “You don’t have to leave yet,” he said, as if it was that simple. “You can stay here a few more days if you need to figure things out. This house is still… yours. You’re still my wife, technically.”

I almost laughed, but caught myself. “No need. I’m not the type to linger.”

“Stella, seriously, if you don’t have anywhere to go—”

“I have somewhere to go.” I met his eyes, forcing myself to hold his gaze. “It’s not here.”

He looked at the glass of wine in his hand, swirling it slowly. “Is this because of Sophie?”

For a moment, the urge to laugh did win. “If you think this is about Sophie, you haven’t been paying attention. But that’s always been the problem, hasn’t it?”

He bristled, set the glass down a little too hard. “You’re not being fair.”

“No,” I said, “for the first time in years, I’m being fair to myself.”

He didn’t know what to do with that. The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that swallows apologies before they can be born.

I took a few steps toward the door. My suitcase bumped over the rug. He watched, and for a moment, I wondered if he’d try to stop me. Part of me wanted him to. The part that hadn’t quite let go. The part that was still a girl, barefoot and in love, waiting for him to come home and make everything right.

But that part of me was fading, quietly and with surprising grace.

He finally spoke. “That day at the hospital… You were going to tell me something, weren’t you?”

I paused at the door, the secret pressing against my ribs. I could have told him. I could have turned and watched his whole world change. I could have handed him this child and said, ‘Look. Look at what you’re losing.’

But love isn’t about holding someone hostage, not even with the truth.

I waited a few heartbeats. “I already forgot about it,” I said softly. “Goodbye, Alex.”

He took a step toward me, maybe to argue, maybe to apologize, maybe just to feel something, but I was already halfway down the hall. The car’s headlights blinked through the window.

I let myself out, the door clicking shut behind me with a gentle finality.

Outside, the air was crisp and sharp, slicing through my exhaustion. Josh was there already, leaning against the hood of the car, his arms crossed, face set In that protective big-brother scowl that always made me feel like a kid again.

He rushed forward to help with my suitcase, his words brisk and businesslike, but I could see the worry in his eyes. “Did he try to stop you?”

“Not really,” I said, forcing a smile. “It’s done.”

He nodded, lips pressed tight. “Let’s just get you out of here.”

But before he loaded my bag, he did something odd: he crouched down beside the front wheel and peered under the car, then moved to the back, running his hand along the undercarriage. I watched, puzzled. “Josh, what are you doing?”

He didn’t answer right away. He frowned, wiped his hands on his jeans, then ducked into the front seat and fiddled with the pedals. When he climbed back out, his face was grim.

“Stella, we’re not taking this car.”

I blinked. “What? Why not?”

He showed me his hands; streaked with something greasy, a faint metallic smell in the air. “The brake line’s been loosened. It isn’t wear and tear, Stella. Somebody did this.”

My heart skipped, then started racing. “No, it’s probably just the mechanic. That old car is always breaking down—”

He cut me off, voice low and serious. “No. Not like this. You could’ve died.”

A chill ran through me. I tried to brush it off, tried to convince myself it was just a coincidence, just bad luck, but the look in Josh’s eyes made it impossible.

“Okay,” I said finally, voice shaking. “Let’s just call a cab.”

So we did. We stood in silence until the cab arrived, and as I slid into the back seat, Josh double-checked the locks and the tires. He didn’t trust anyone, not anymore, and suddenly, neither did I.

As the cab pulled away from the house, I pressed my forehead to the cool glass, watching the Marwood home shrink in the rearview mirror. For the first time, I wondered if I’d ever truly been safe there. I wasn’t sure of much anymore, except that I was leaving, and that was the first thing I’d gotten right in a long, long time.