It was our couple’s ring. He’d once begged to wear it on his hand, but he didn’t want his coworkers to find out, so I’d compromised and kept it close to my heart instead.
“Well, I guess that’s that.”
I said word by word, my voice so light it almost got swallowed by the air.
And in front of everyone, I tossed the ring into the trash.
“Sir,” I said quietly, my voice trembling but cold, “I won’t make a scene anymore.”
When I turned to leave, my steps were surprisingly steady.
“Issy—” Ross started, but Zamora’s hand on his arm stopped him.
With four days left until the birthday party, I returned home and began packing up everything that belonged to me, piece by piece, into a single suitcase.
The couple’s clothes, toothbrushes, mugs—they were all carefully packed, then without hesitation, tossed into the trash.
Each item carried a memory of tenderness now past, and I was the one to end it all.
Once I finished, I sent the suitcase to the address my mom had given me.
That night, Ross stumbled through the door, reeking of alcohol and a faint, lingering trace of another woman’s scent.
His steps wobbled, but the moment he saw me, he smiled and threw himself into my arms.
“Babe…” His voice was hoarse, softened by drunken warmth. “Are you mad at me again? Don’t be like this. I missed you.”
I recoiled from him, dizzy from the smell of alcohol.
He froze, vulnerability flashing briefly across his face. His voice turned husky. “You… don’t love me anymore, do you? Why are you pushing me away?”
I looked at his blurred face, feeling my heart sink bit by bit.
“Ross,” I said softly, “you’re the one who stopped loving me first.”
But he didn’t hear me.
He slumped onto the couch and quickly fell into a heavy sleep.
The next morning, he rubbed his forehead, sitting up with a dazed look as if he’d forgotten everything about the night before, staring at his wrinkled shirt and smelling of alcohol.
Before, after a night of entertaining clients, he would come home to me fixing his clothes and preparing a hangover soup for him.
Today, there was nothing.
He washed up and came to the table while I quietly ate breakfast.
Using his usual habitual tenderness, he wrapped his arms around me from behind. “Babe, what about my breakfast?”
I tilted my head slightly, avoiding his embrace.
“Forgot to make it.”
His smile stiffened, a flicker of unease in his eyes.