Chapter 6

Back home, I did a final luggage check.
Late at night, I stumbled upon Sophia's diary.
It described how she met Daniel at a hostel years ago when she was broke.
Key pages were torn out.
Only one line remained: "Those were the happiest days of my life."
The later entries were all about missing Daniel.
The day she accepted my proposal, she wrote:
"Youthful ignorance mistook dirt for stars. I've missed Daniel every day since he left. But Alex is safe. Alex is comfortable. Alex will never leave."

Safe. Comfortable. Will never leave.

That's what I was. Not a partner. A safety net.

I read the rest of the diary with numb fingers.

Entry after entry about Daniel. How he made her laugh. How his eyes sparkled in the rain. How she wished she'd had the courage to follow him when he left.

And then, scattered between the love letters to another man, the occasional mention of me:

"Alex brought flowers again. I told him I'm allergic. He keeps forgetting."

I never forgot. She told me she was allergic so I'd stop. I brought them anyway because I knew she wasn't — I'd seen her buy herself roses when she thought I wasn't looking.

"Alex proposed today. I said yes. It's the practical choice."

The practical choice.

"Wedding planning is exhausting. Alex handles everything. At least he's useful."

Useful.

I closed the diary and set it on the nightstand. My hands weren't shaking. My eyes were dry.

Somewhere in the last ten years, I'd used up all my tears for this woman.

I took one last look around the apartment. The couch we'd picked together. The bookshelf I'd built. The kitchen where I'd cooked a thousand meals she barely touched because she'd already eaten with Daniel.

I left the diary open on her pillow, turned to the page about the proposal.

Then I finished packing.

Three days left.

The next morning, I went to our favorite café — favorite meaning the only one Sophia would agree to because Daniel had recommended it.

I ordered two coffees. Drank mine. Left hers on the table.

A habit of ten years. Dead in three days.

I visited our old school. The bench where she'd first held my hand. The tree where I'd carved our initials — AC + SL — inside a clumsy heart.

Someone had carved over it. New initials. New love.

The world moves on. It was time I did too.

That afternoon, I transferred my share of our joint business to Sophia's name. She'd built it as much as I had, and I wasn't petty enough to tear it apart on my way out.

My lawyer looked at me like I was insane.

"You're giving up a $12 million stake?"

"I'm giving up a lot more than that. The money's the easy part."

He shook his head but filed the papers.

That night, alone in the half-empty apartment, I pulled the last page off the calendar.

"Tell Sophia I love her."

I stared at it for a long time.

Then I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash.