RYLEE

I forget how heavy a heart can feel until I carry mine through the grocery store.

The fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting an artificial glow that makes everything feel sterile. I linger by the produce section, aimlessly shifting oranges around in their bin, pretending to decide which one to buy. My fingers are cold against the fruit's rough skin, but I can't seem to let go.

I don't know why I came here.

The pantry at home is full. But the walls of the house felt too tight, the silence too loud. I needed to be anywhere else — even if that meant loitering in a grocery store, pretending I have somewhere to be.

I toss the orange back into the pile and walk out without buying anything.

The house is dark when I return, the faint glow of the porch light barely illuminating the entryway. Adrian's car is gone.

Good.

I slip inside, shutting the door softly behind me, as if I might wake something sleeping. The house smells like faint traces of Adrian's cologne, a lingering reminder that he still exists within these walls.

I hate how quickly I notice his absence.

Keys in hand, I linger in the living room, staring at the spot on the couch where he used to fall asleep watching late-night business reports.

I used to drape a blanket over him.

Now, I let him freeze.

I drop my keys on the entryway table and sink onto the couch, curling my legs to my chest. The TV remote rests beside me, but I don't turn it on. I just sit, the weight of exhaustion pressing me into the cushions.

My phone buzzes.

I glance at the screen. Ella.

Charity event tonight. Come. You need it.

I hesitate, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

I haven't gone to anything in months. I've become a ghost of myself, drifting through my days with no real purpose, avoiding people, avoiding the inevitable questions.

But the thought of spending another night here, swallowed by the silence of this dying marriage?

I can't.

I text back:I'll be there.

I regret agreeing the moment I walk in.

The venue hums with life — champagne flutes clink, polished people laugh, their conversations blending into a steady drone of chatter and forced pleasantries. The air smells like roses and something too sweet, cloying against my throat.

I tug at the hem of my dress, the silky fabric suddenly feeling too tight.

Ella spots me first, her face lighting up as she pushes through the crowd. "Rylee! You actually came!"

I summon a smile. "I figured I should leave the house before I turn into a recluse."

She loops her arm through mine, pulling me toward a small circle of people. "Come on, let me introduce you to some friends."

I let her drag me through the crowd, my smile feeling more like armor with every step.

The small group welcomes me warmly, their faces vaguely familiar — people I've probably met at one of Adrian's work events or one of my own charity functions. They talk easily, laughing, sipping their champagne, radiating an effortless ease I can't relate to.

I clutch my glass of wine like a lifeline, swirling the liquid without drinking it.

And then, someone says his name.

"Adrian?" One of the women tilts her head, eyes bright with curiosity. "He's your husband, right?"

My fingers tighten around the glass.

I smile — sharp, brittle. "Something like that."

Her brows lift, oblivious to the crack in my voice. "I read about his latest project in that business magazine. He's brilliant. You must be so proud."

Proud.

The word echoes like a cruel joke.

Ella steps in, quickly changing the subject, but the damage is done. The room feels smaller, the air heavier.

I excuse myself to the restroom and don't come back.

I get home late, slipping through the door as quietly as possible.

But Adrian is awake.

He's on the couch, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, hair tousled like he's run his hands through it one too many times. He looks up when I enter, eyes dark, heavy with something I can't place.

"You're out late," he says, voice low.

I kick off my heels, ignoring the way my heart thuds painfully at the sight of him. "I didn't realize I needed your permission."

He watches me, jaw tight. "I called you."

I freeze, guilt knotting in my stomach. I hadn't even checked my phone.

"Why?" I ask, careful to keep my voice neutral.

Adrian leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. "The counselor rescheduled. I thought you'd want to know."

Of course. The counselor.

The woman who watches us unravel in her office every week like we're some kind of psychological case study.

"Noted," I say, turning toward the hallway.

I make it three steps before his voice stops me again.

"You smell like wine."

I spin around, pulse pounding. "And? You smell like regret."

Adrian stands, shoulders tense, eyes sharp. "Where were you?"

I laugh — sharp and cruel. "Are you seriously asking me that? After everything?"

He steps closer, voice low and tight. "I just want to know."

I stare at him, chest heaving.

He looks like a stranger standing in our living room.

I used to know every inch of him — every scar, every freckle, every shift in his expression. Now, all I see is distance.

"Why do you care?" I whisper.

His face twists, something shattered flickering behind his eyes.

And then he does what he always does.

He shuts down.

Shakes his head.

Walks away.

The bedroom door closes with a soft, devastating click.

I stand in the quiet, heart splintering, throat raw.

And for the first time in months, I let myself break.