RYLEE

I arrive at the therapist's office twenty minutes early.

Not because I'm eager — I'd rather lick a subway pole — but because showing up on time gives me a petty sense of control.

The waiting room smells like lavender and hopelessness. A cheap diffuser hums on the side table, barely masking the sharp tang of cleaning chemicals. I cross my legs, picking at the thread unraveling from my sleeve, the clock ticking loud enough to make my teeth grind.

Adrian is late. Of course, he's late.

The receptionist glances at me every few minutes, a soft pity in her eyes, like she can sense the wreckage of my marriage bleeding through my skin.

I rehearse what I want to tell the counselor:Can we expedite this? Fast-track the six-month sentence and just sign the damn papers?

It's cruel, maybe. But sitting in limbo, pretending there's a salvageable marriage buried beneath years of resentment, feels even crueler.

At seventeen minutes past the hour, the door swings open.

Adrian strides in like he owns the building — tie loosened, hair tousled in that calculated way that makes him look like he just conquered a boardroom.

He spots me immediately, eyes sharp and unreadable.

"You're early," he says, voice edged with amusement.

"You're late," I shoot back.

He glances at the clock, shrugs. "Traffic."

I snort. "You work five blocks away."

He flashes a humorless smile. "Terrible congestion. Could barely move."

I dig my nails into my palm, suppressing the urge to hurl the ugly ceramic vase off the table and into his perfect face.

The therapist, Dr. Meyer, opens her door and calls us in. She's in her usual beige cardigan, hair in a silver bob, eyes too soft for someone who listens to people emotionally eviscerate each other all day.

We sit on opposite ends of the couch. The cushion between us might as well be a crater.

Dr. Meyer settles into her chair, flipping through her notes. "How have things been this week?"

I cross my arms. "Fantastic. I think we've ascended to a new level of spiritual closeness."

Adrian rubs his face, already exasperated.

"Any progress with communication?" Dr. Meyer tries again.

"Oh, absolutely," I say. "He communicated last night by locking the door to his office."

Adrian tilts his head. "I thought you preferred your passive-aggressive sticky notes."

I smile, saccharine. "I do. Especially the one where I wrote, Please remember to remove your ego from the kitchen counter."

Dr. Meyer lifts her hand like she's calming feral animals.

"Okay," she says, steady as a monk. "Let's try something new. I want you to imagine that divorce isn't an option. That you have to stay together."

I nearly choke on my laugh. "What is this, couples therapy or a horror escape room?"

Her gaze stays gentle. "Humor is a defense mechanism, Rylee."

"Yeah? So is wine."

Adrian exhales sharply, and I can't tell if he's laughing or suppressing the urge to flee.

Dr. Meyer waits. Patient. Unmoving.

I sigh, slumping into the couch. "Fine. If divorce wasn't an option? I guess we'd need honesty. Brutal honesty."

"That's a good start," she says, nodding. "Adrian?"

He laces his fingers, voice low. "I'm angry."

The admission cuts through the air like a blade.

"I'm angry all the time," he continues, jaw tight. "And it's easier to stay angry than admit I feel like I failed. At this. At making her happy."

The weight of his words sinks into me like lead.

Dr. Meyer turns to me. "Rylee?"

I trace the seam of the couch cushion, my voice brittle. "I'm tired."

Adrian's brows draw together.

"I'm tired of feeling like a burden," I whisper. "Of bending over backward to keep this marriage breathing while he barely notices I exist."

Adrian flinches, like I've physically hit him.

I swallow hard, the words tumbling out like they've been waiting for years. "I stopped trying because I didn't know how to compete with the fantasy version of me he created in his head."

The room hums with silence.

Dr. Meyer watches us carefully, her gaze measuring every shift in our expressions.

"It sounds like you're both stuck," she says quietly. "In cycles of defensiveness, blame, and unmet expectations."

I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood.

"Is there any part of you," she continues, "that still wants to try?"

Adrian stays quiet.

I feel like I'm suffocating.

"I don't know," I rasp. "I don't even know who we are anymore."

Adrian drags a hand down his face, elbows resting on his knees like he's physically holding himself together.

The room crackles with tension, thick enough to drown in.

And then, just as I think he might actually say something real, Adrian leans back with a bitter smile.

"We should get a refund," he mutters. "The counselor's supposed to talk us out of divorce."

I blink. "Are you serious right now?"

"I'm serious about the refund."

My chest burns, heart thudding painfully against my ribs.

"Why do you even show up?" I snap. "If you don't want to try, why keep doing this?"

He looks at me, eyes cold. "Because a judge made me."

The words slice through me like glass.

Dr. Meyer leans forward, voice low but firm. "I know this feels impossible. But this bitterness? It's armor. And if you keep wearing it, you'll never see what's underneath."

Adrian laughs, sharp and humorless. "Underneath is just more wreckage."

I rub my temples, exhaustion seeping into my bones. "Can we just… expedite this? Fast-track the six months? This feels like torture."

Dr. Meyer's gaze softens, but her voice sharpens like a knife. "I know it does. But six months of therapy is nothing compared to the years you spent building a life together."

Adrian's knee bounces, restless. "And what if it's already dead?"

"Then you bury it properly," she says, her voice a quiet thunder. "But not until you've made sure it can't be revived."

The words hang heavy in the air.

Adrian checks his watch, already halfway out the door emotionally.

I clutch my bag like a lifeline, ready to bolt the second this session ends.

Dr. Meyer watches us, eyes knowing.

"We'll end here," she says. "But next week, we dig deeper."

Adrian stands first, adjusting his tie like he's closing a business deal.

I trail behind him, my pulse hammering, body vibrating with anger, sadness, and something worse — the terrifying, gut-wrenching feeling that I still care.

We walk to the elevator in silence.

The doors slide open, and we step inside, standing on opposite ends like strangers.

The doors close. The air hums.

Adrian clears his throat, eyes fixed on the floor. "Dinner tonight?"

I blink. "What?"

He shifts his weight, voice dry. "It's your mom's birthday."

I curse under my breath.

Because of course it is.

The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.

Adrian steps out, glancing back at me with an expression I can't decipher.

"I'll pick you up at seven," he mutters, already walking away.

I stand frozen, heart pounding, throat tight.

Because for the first time in months, he doesn't look furious.

He just looks lost.

And somehow, that's so much worse.

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