Chapter Four: The Silence Between Us

The apartment felt impossibly still.

Mia sat on the edge of the couch, one hand resting lightly on her lap, the other on the armrest. Her fingers tapped a slow rhythm, barely noticeable, a quiet punctuation to the thoughts racing through her head. The city hummed outside—cars, people, life—but inside, there was only this hollow space, this unbearable quiet.

The knock at the door came suddenly, sharp.

Her heart jolted.

“Who is it?” she whispered, voice trembling.

“Me,” Allen said. His voice carried the calm, measured indifference she knew too well. That same tone that could strip warmth from a room.

Mia hesitated. Her hand hovered near the doorknob. Part of her wanted to close the door and pretend none of this existed. Part of her wanted to throw herself at him, to scream, to beg him not to leave her life like this.

She opened it.

Allen was there, briefcase in hand, standing too tall, too composed, too indifferent. His eyes swept over her, lingering just long enough to note her presence and nothing else.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

Mia swallowed hard. Her chest felt tight. “Talk?” she echoed, voice brittle.

“Yes,” he said. A single word. Flat. Controlled. Cold.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation. He didn’t look around. Didn’t glance at her. Just moved to the counter, set the briefcase down, and pulled out a thin stack of papers. His hands were steady, calm, unshaking.

Mia’s breath caught.

She was shaking now.

Her fingers trembled as she reached for them, but her hand hovered, suspended by disbelief.

“Divorce papers,” he said. Not a question. Not a hint of hesitation. Just a statement, matter-of-fact, like he was reading the weather aloud.

Mia’s knees weakened. She sank onto the nearest chair. One hand went instinctively to her stomach, though she didn’t fully understand why. Maybe because that part of her life—the life she hadn’t even shared with him yet—felt like the only thing still hers.

“You… you’re divorcing me? Why? What have I done wrong?” she whispered.

“Yes,” he said, without flinching. No inflection. No regret. Nothing but the cold certainty that she had already lost.

Her fingers dug into the armrests. Her voice trembled. “Why? Why now? After everything we’ve—after…” She stopped. Couldn’t find the words. Couldn’t bring herself to finish.

He shrugged lightly. Not an apology. Not a hint of sorrow. Just a shift of weight, an acknowledgment of the world around him, as if her pain was nothing more than a breeze.

“I’m done, Mia,” he said. “Done pretending. Done trying to fix something I don’t want to fix.”

Her chest tightened, the air lodged in her throat. “Pretending?” she breathed. “You mean… us? Our marriage? You've been pretending all this while?”

He didn’t answer. He picked up one of the papers, tapped it lightly against the counter, and let it fall back into the stack. “Sign it. Or don’t. Doesn’t matter. The result is the same.”

Mia felt her stomach twist, a deep, sinking ache. “You… you don’t even care, it's been fuve years.” She said. Her voice cracked, a fragile, low sound.

“I don’t,” he said simply. Flat. Cold. Like it wasn’t cruel. Like it wasn’t shattering the woman sitting in front of him, the woman who had loved him blindly.

Tears pricked her eyes, hot and unbidden. She blinked them back. Couldn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him. She wanted to scream, to beg, to punch, to collapse—something—but her body refused. She felt rooted in the floor, suspended in grief and disbelief.

“Why are you doing this?” she whispered. “Why end us like this? I don’t understand. Where did I go wrong?”

“I told you,” he interrupted, calm, dismissive, and the words cut deeper than any argument could. “Because I want out. It’s over.”

Mia’s hands shook. She pressed one against her chest, the other against her stomach. This—this empty apartment, these sterile papers, this cold man—was all that remained. The life she thought she had, the man she thought she knew, had vanished.

“You’ve been… indifferent for months,” she said. Her voice barely more than a whisper. “I thought… I thought maybe… I was wrong. Maybe I was just overthinking it. And now?”

“You weren’t wrong,” he said. A shrug, a tilt of his head. “Just too late.”

Her eyes filled, her vision blurred. She gritted her teeth, trying to steady her breathing. She couldn’t let him see her like this. Vulnerable. Broken. Weak. Not anymore.

“Are you even… sorry? I mean, you cheated on me. I should be the angry one here.” she said. One last question, fragile, desperate, that didn’t deserve an answer.

“I don’t feel sorry,” he said. Plain. Matter-of-fact. “Not for you. Not for us. There’s nothing left to be sorry about. I'm tired.”

Her fingers pressed harder against her stomach. She felt something inside her—small, quiet, alive—an anchor she hadn’t realized she needed. Something he couldn’t take from her, no matter how indifferent he was.

“You know, I’m not afraid of starting over,” she said finally, her voice low but firm. “And I can't believe you're doing this.”

He looked at her once, eyes unflinching, unsoftened, then turned and picked up the papers. He slipped them back into the briefcase with the same calm, measured precision, and without another word, walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Mia remained seated, her body trembling, hands pressed to her stomach, feeling the echo of his presence leave like a vacuum. The apartment smelled like nothing. Empty, hollow, silent.

And in that silence, she realized something.

She had survived betrayal. She had survived indifference. And whatever came next—however painful, however long—it would not break her.

Not completely.

She pressed her palms flat against the counter, took a deep, shaky breath, and whispered, “I will be okay.”

Because she had to be.

Even if it meant doing it alone.