I spent the afternoon getting ready like a girl on a first date.

The dress was navy silk, cut just below the knee. I bought it on a Tuesday, on my lunch break, because I saw it in a window and thought of Ryland's face. One year ago tonight, he'd asked me to marry him on the rooftop of Aurelio's, the wind catching my hair, the city lit up below us like something we'd already won. I'd booked the same table. Same time. Same wine.

I even wrote him a letter.

It was folded on the entry table, four pages in my best handwriting. I'd told him things I couldn't say out loud anymore. That I felt him slipping. That some nights I lay next to him and felt the bed stretch a thousand miles wide. That I still believed in us. That I needed him to believe too.

I checked my lipstick in the hallway mirror at six. At six-thirty, I sat on the edge of the couch so I wouldn't wrinkle the dress. At seven-fifteen, I heard his key in the lock.

He came in already looking down at his phone.

"Hey," he said. Not looking up.

"Hi."

He glanced at me then. Did a small double-take. For a second, something flickered in his face — the old Ryland, the one who used to come up behind me in the kitchen and bury his nose in my hair. He smiled, soft and tired.

"You look beautiful."

"Thank you." I stood up. Smoothed the dress. "Reservation's at eight. We should go."

His smile faltered.

"Bell."

One syllable. That was all it took. My stomach dropped two floors before he said anything else.

"What."

He set his keys down. Slow. Like the keys were heavier than they were.

"I can't tonight."

I didn't move. Didn't blink. I just stood there in the navy silk and waited for the rest of it.

"Cadence has chemo in the morning," he said. "She's — Bell, she's terrified. She called me from the bathroom floor. She couldn't stop shaking. I told her I'd stay with her tonight. Just tonight."

I looked at the letter on the entry table. Four pages. My best handwriting.

"It's our anniversary, Ryland."

I said it quietly. The way you say things when there's no air left in the room.

He pressed the heel of his hand against his eye.

"One dinner, Bellamy." His voice took on that gentle, reasonable tone — the one he used on me more and more lately, like I was a child who didn't understand the news. "One dinner. We'll have a hundred more. She might not have many more anniversaries of anything."

There it was. The sentence he kept in his pocket like a coin.

I didn't answer. I couldn't. If I opened my mouth, something ugly was going to come out, and I had spent eight years not being ugly to him.

He took my silence as understanding. He always did.

He crossed the room and kissed the top of my head. He smelled like someone else's perfume — something floral and clinical, hospital corridors and lily.

"I love you," he said. "Thank you for being who you are."

Then he was gone.

The door clicked shut. The apartment held its breath. I stood there in the middle of the living room in a dress I'd bought for a man who'd already left the room a long time ago.

I walked to the kitchen. I sat at the table. I did not take the dress off. I did not eat. I did not cry. I sat there and watched the candle I'd lit burn all the way down to a puddle, and when the wick drowned itself, I sat in the dark.

At some point — I don't know when — I got up and got my laptop.

The screen lit my face blue. I typed three words into the search bar. My fingers were steadier than I expected.

*Divorce attorneys Seattle.*

The results loaded. Smiling faces in suits. Promises of discretion. Free consultations. I read every name. I didn't click a single one. I just stared at the screen until the words stopped meaning anything and became shapes.

Then I closed the laptop.

I stayed at the kitchen table until the windows turned gray.

---

A week later, Paige called me before I'd even had coffee.

"Don't open Instagram," she said.

I opened Instagram.

The video was already at three million views. Ryland, sitting in a vinyl hospital chair. Cadence in a soft pink beanie, IV taped to the back of her hand. He was holding that hand against his cheek. Her eyes were closed. His were wet.

*Some people are worth fighting for.*

I scrolled down to the comments before I could stop myself.

*Where is his wife??*

*Heartless.*

*Imagine being married to a man like this and still being jealous of a dying girl. Selfish.*

*Cadence deserves him. The wife clearly doesn't.*

My phone started buzzing in my hand. DMs. Tagged posts. A photo of me from a charity event last spring, my face circled in red, the word *VILLAIN* across my forehead.

I sat very still on the edge of the bed.

Then, one by one, I opened each app. Deactivated. Deleted. Instagram. Twitter. TikTok. Facebook. I watched the little confirmation boxes pop up — *Are you sure?* — and I tapped *yes*, *yes*, *yes*, until my phone went quiet in my palm.

The silence after was the loudest thing I'd heard in weeks.

I set the phone face-down on the nightstand. I looked at the navy dress, still hanging on the closet door where I'd put it the morning after our anniversary.

I hadn't been able to make myself take it down.

I asked him to come home early on a Thursday.

I didn't tell him why. I just texted: *Can you be home by six? We need to talk.*

He showed up at seven-thirty.

I was sitting at the kitchen table when he walked in. I'd been sitting there for an hour and a half. I hadn't moved. Hadn't checked my phone. I'd just sat there with my hands folded on the table like I was waiting for a job interview that would decide the rest of my life.

Which, I guess, I was.

He set his keys down. Looked at me. His face did that thing — that small tightening around the eyes — that meant he already knew this was going to be difficult and he was already tired.

"Hey," he said. "Sorry I'm late. Cadence had a—"

"I want a divorce."

The words came out flat. Clean. I'd practiced them in the mirror that morning until they stopped shaking.

Ryland blinked.

Then he smiled. Not a real smile. The kind you give someone who just said something absurd.

"Bell."

"I'm serious."

He pulled out the chair across from me and sat down slowly, like he was approaching something fragile. His voice went soft. Reasonable. The voice he used when he was about to explain something I didn't understand.

"You're upset," he said. "I get it. I know I haven't been around as much as—"

"I want a divorce, Ryland."

He leaned back. Rubbed his face with both hands. When he dropped them, he looked at me like I was a puzzle he was trying to solve.

"This is about Cadence."

It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Bell." He said my name like it was an answer all by itself. "She's *dying*. You understand that, right? She has maybe six months. Maybe less. And you're asking me to—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything," I said. "I'm telling you I'm done."

He stared at me. For a long moment, he just stared.

Then he shook his head.

"You don't mean that."

"I do."

"You're jealous," he said quietly. "And I understand. I do. But you're letting your feelings cloud your—"

"Don't."

My voice cracked on the word. I pressed my palms flat against the table to stop my hands from shaking.

"Don't tell me what I'm feeling," I said. "Don't tell me I'm overreacting. Don't tell me this is temporary. You chose her, Ryland. Every single time, you chose her. And I'm done waiting for you to choose me."

He was quiet for a beat.

Then he reached across the table. Put his hand over mine.

"I chose *you*," he said. "I married *you*. I love *you*. Cadence is—" He stopped. Swallowed. "She's a friend who's going through the worst thing a person can go through. And when this is over, when she's—" His voice caught. "When she's gone, it's going to be you and me. Just like it's always been."

I pulled my hand back.

"I want a divorce," I said again.

He stood up. Paced to the window. Stood there with his back to me, shoulders tight.

"We're not doing this," he said finally. "You're upset. You need space. Fine. Take space. But we're not throwing away eight years because you're hurt right now."

"Ryland—"

"I'm not signing anything, Bellamy."

He turned around. His face was calm. Certain. Like he'd just made a decision for both of us and the matter was settled.

"We'll talk about this when you're thinking clearly," he said.

Then he walked out of the kitchen.

I heard him go into the bedroom. Heard the closet door open. Heard him moving around, packing something. Five minutes later, he came back through with an overnight bag.

"I'm staying at Cadence's tonight," he said. "She needs me. We'll talk tomorrow."

The door closed behind him.

I sat at the table until the apartment went dark.

---

The next morning, I called a lawyer.

Her name was Sharon Reyes. She had good reviews and a profile photo where she looked like she didn't take shit from anyone. I liked that.

She told me to bring my marriage certificate, bank statements, and any documentation of joint assets. She told me Washington was a no-fault state. She told me this would take time, but it would get done.

I thanked her and hung up.

Then I texted Ryland: *I've retained a lawyer. You'll be served papers next week.*

He didn't respond for six hours.

When he finally did, it was a single line:

*You're not thinking straight. Let's talk about this like adults.*

I didn't answer.

---

Three days later, my phone rang.

Mrs. Crawford.

I stared at the screen. Let it ring twice. Three times. Then I answered.

"Bellamy, sweetheart."

Her voice was thick. Like she'd been crying.

"Hi, Mom."

"Ryland told me," she said. "About the… about what you're planning."

I didn't say anything.

"Honey, he loves you," she said. "He's just going through something very hard right now. You have to understand—"

"I do understand."

"Then why are you doing this?"

I closed my eyes.

"Because he's not coming back," I said quietly.

She was silent for a moment.

Then: "He chose you, Bellamy. He married *you*."

"He did," I said. "And then he left."

She started crying then. Full, heaving sobs.

"Please don't do this," she said. "Please. He needs you right now. He needs both of us to—"

I hung up.

I sat on the edge of the couch and stared at the wall.

Then I opened my laptop and started looking for apartments.

---

The video showed up two days later.

Paige sent it to me with no message. Just the link.

I opened it.

Mrs. Crawford was sitting next to Cadence on a cream-colored couch. Cadence's head was resting on her shoulder. Mrs. Crawford was stroking her hair.

"This girl," Mrs. Crawford said, her voice breaking, "is one of the strongest people I've ever met. Watching her fight with so much grace… it's been an honor."

Cadence smiled softly. Weakly. The pink beanie was pulled low over her forehead.

"Thank you," she whispered. "That means everything."

Mrs. Crawford kissed the top of her head.

"You're like a daughter to me," she said.

The video ended.

I set my phone down.

I was sitting in the new apartment. One bedroom. Hardwood floors. A window that looked out over a parking lot. I'd signed the lease that morning. Moved in with two suitcases and a box of books.

I sat on the floor in the empty living room and stared at the wall.

Something inside me that had been holding on — some last thread I didn't even know was still there — snapped.

I didn't cry.

I just sat there.

And I felt it go.

I went to her house on a Tuesday morning.

Mrs. Crawford's house. The one with the blue shutters and the rosebushes she pruned every spring. I'd helped her plant half of them. I'd spent Thanksgivings in that kitchen. I'd sat on that porch and listened to her talk about Ryland when he was a boy, back when she used to look at me like I was the best thing that ever happened to him.

She opened the door in a cardigan and reading glasses. Her face did something complicated when she saw me.

"Bellamy."

"Hi, Mom."

She didn't move. Didn't open the door wider. Just stood there with one hand on the frame.

"Can I come in?" I asked.

She hesitated. Then stepped back.

I followed her into the living room. She didn't offer coffee. Didn't sit. She just stood by the mantel with her arms crossed, waiting.

I'd practiced this in the car. I'd told myself I wasn't going to beg. I was just going to explain.

"I need you to understand something," I said. "I'm not leaving because I don't love him. I'm leaving because he already left."

She looked at me. Her mouth was a thin line.

"He's supporting a dying girl, Bellamy."

"He's abandoning his wife."

"You're being selfish."

The word landed like a slap.

I stood there. I didn't move. I just looked at her.

"Cadence would never put him in this position," she said quietly.

I felt something inside me go very still.

"No," I said. "She wouldn't. Because she's not his wife."

Mrs. Crawford's jaw tightened. She looked away.

I waited. I don't know what I was waiting for. An apology. A crack in the wall. Some small acknowledgment that I wasn't crazy.

She didn't give me one.

I turned and walked out.

She didn't follow me.

I sat in my car in her driveway for a long time. I watched the rosebushes sway in the wind. I thought about the afternoon we'd planted them. How she'd told me I was the daughter she never had.

I started the car and drove away.

I didn't go back.

---

He texted me Thursday afternoon.

*Can we talk? I want to see you.*

I stared at the message for a full minute.

Then: *When?*

*Tonight. There's a movie at the Paramount at 7. Meet me there?*

I almost said no. I had the word typed out. My thumb hovered over send.

But some stupid, desperate part of me whispered: *What if you're wrong.*

I deleted the no.

*Okay.*

---

It was raining when I got there.

Ryland was waiting under the marquee, hands in his pockets. When he saw me, he smiled. Not the tired smile. Not the guilty one. The real one.

"Hey," he said.

"Hi."

He kissed my cheek. His hand touched the small of my back as we walked inside. He bought popcorn. He asked if I wanted M&Ms. He did all the small things he used to do, back when I didn't have to wonder if he meant them.

We sat in the back row. The theater was half-empty. The lights went down. The previews started.

For twenty minutes, I let myself believe it.

His shoulder was warm against mine. He passed me the popcorn without looking. When something funny happened on screen, I heard him laugh, and it sounded like the old laugh, the one from before.

I thought: *Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he just needed time. Maybe this is the beginning of him coming back.*

Then his phone lit up in his lap.

I saw her name.

Cadence.

He picked it up. Held it to his ear. His whole body changed.

"Hey," he said quietly. "What's wrong?"

I couldn't hear her voice. Just the shape of it. High and breaking.

Ryland stood up.

"Okay," he said. "Okay. I'm coming. I'll be right there."

He looked down at me. His face was already somewhere else.

"I have to go," he said. "She's—there's an emergency. I'll call you."

He was gone before I could answer.

I sat there in the dark.

The movie kept playing. People laughed. Someone behind me whispered something. The popcorn sat between the empty seat and mine, still warm.

I waited.

I told myself he'd come back. He'd realize. He'd walk back through those doors and sit down and say he was sorry.

I waited through the rest of the movie.

I waited through the credits.

I waited until the lights came up and the ushers started sweeping.

Then I stood up. I walked out into the rain. I didn't have an umbrella. I didn't call a car. I just walked.

My phone buzzed twenty minutes later.

*Sorry. She had a panic attack. Broke a nail and spiraled. I'm staying with her tonight. Talk tomorrow?*

I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

Rain ran down my face. My hair stuck to my neck. My shoes were soaked through.

I looked at the message.

A broken nail.

I didn't answer.

I just kept walking.