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.

The rain wasn't falling anymore. It was throwing itself at the city.

I walked with my arms wrapped around my ribs, heels biting blisters into my feet, hair plastered flat to my skull. My phone was a wet brick in my hand. I pulled it out under the awning of a closed dry cleaner and dialed him.

Straight to voicemail.

I dialed again.

Straight to voicemail.

I didn't leave a message. What was I going to say. *I'm soaked. I'm walking. You left me in a theater because she broke a nail.* I typed it out anyway. Deleted it. Typed something shorter. *Where are you.* Hit send.

The little checkmark turned gray.

I kept walking.

The streetlights were spaced too far apart. Half of them flickered. The bus had stopped running an hour ago, and the rideshare app kept telling me there were no cars in my area, please try again. I knew the way home. Twelve blocks. I'd done it a hundred times in daylight.

In front of me, a long block stretched between two boarded-up storefronts. I could cut through the alley behind them and shave four blocks off. I'd done it before. With Ryland. In summer.

I turned in.

The alley swallowed the streetlight in three steps. My shoes splashed in something that wasn't water. The brick walls leaned in close enough to brush my shoulders. I picked up my pace. My breath made small clouds in front of my mouth.

I heard the footstep behind me one half-second before the hand closed over my mouth.

The world tilted. My back slammed into something hard — chest, jacket, the smell of wet wool and cigarettes. An arm clamped across my collarbones. My phone hit the ground. The screen lit up sideways in a puddle.

"Shh," he said. Right into my ear. Almost gentle. "Shh, shh, shh."

I bit down on the hand. He grunted and the hand jerked away and I screamed — one short, ragged sound that the rain ate before it finished. He shoved me face-first into the brick. My cheek opened. I tasted copper.

"Stop," he hissed. "Stop, stop—"

I didn't stop. I drove my elbow back. I kicked. I clawed at the arm across my throat. My nails caught skin. He swore. The arm tightened.

Then both hands were on my neck.

He turned me around to do it. He wanted to see my face. I remember that. I remember the moment he turned me around, and the rain running down into his eyes, and the way his mouth was open like he was the one struggling to breathe.

His thumbs pressed into the soft place under my jaw.

The world went small.

I'd never understood, before, what people meant when they said your life flashes. Nothing flashed. Everything narrowed. The alley shrank to the size of a coin. My ears filled with cotton. My hands, somewhere far away, were still moving — slapping at his wrists, scratching, fumbling.

Fumbling.

My right hand found my pocket. Empty. My left hand found the wet ground. Found glass. Found my phone.

My thumb pressed against the screen. The home button. The print read. I didn't see it happen. I felt it. The phone unlocked under my finger like it knew me. Like it was the last thing in the world that still did.

I pulled up the keypad by muscle memory. The same muscle memory that had dialed his number ten thousand times. From college dorms. From airport gates. From hospital waiting rooms when my father had his stent put in and Ryland sat next to me holding my hand.

I dialed.

I couldn't hold the phone to my ear. I just pressed it against the wet concrete near my face and prayed.

It rang.

It rang.

Across the city, in a warm apartment with the heat turned up too high, Ryland Crawford lay on a couch with a girl in a pink beanie asleep against his shoulder. His phone buzzed on the coffee table. He reached for it without disturbing her. He looked at the screen.

*Bellamy.*

He glanced down at Cadence. Her eyelashes were dark against her cheek. Her breath was even. Peaceful. She had finally fallen asleep after crying for two hours.

His thumb moved.

*Decline.*

In the alley, the ringing stopped.

I heard the small, polite click of the call ending. I heard my own breath whistle through the place his hands were closing.

My fingers went loose. The phone slid out of them and clattered into the puddle. The screen went dark.

Something in me went dark with it.

Not fear. Fear had already left. What came next was quieter. It was the understanding — the clean, terrible understanding — that he had seen my name and he had chosen not to know.

I stopped fighting.

I think that's what saved me. The man above me felt me go still and his hands loosened a fraction, surprised, and in that fraction —

"HEY!"

A shout. A real one. From the mouth of the alley.

"HEY — GET OFF HER — "

A dog was barking. A flashlight cut across the brick.

The hands left my throat. Footsteps splashed away into the dark. I heard the wet slap of them all the way to the next block.

I lay on my back in two inches of rainwater and looked up.

A man was kneeling over me. Older. Gray beard. A small wet dog at his shoulder, whining. He was already on the phone.

"Yes — yes, an alley off Pike, between Eighth and Ninth — she's bleeding, her neck, she — ma'am, ma'am, stay with me, what's your name, honey, stay with me — "

He slid one hand under my head. Lifted it out of the water. His coat smelled like cedar and dog.

"Stay with me," he said. "They're coming. You hear me? Stay awake. What's your name."

My mouth moved.

"Bellamy," I whispered.

"Bellamy," he repeated. Like a promise. "I've got you, Bellamy. I've got you."

Somewhere far away, on a coffee table in a warm apartment, a phone screen was already going dark.