On the way to the client’s office, I passed the new hire, Chelsea, in the stairwell. She was gripping a silver bracelet, identical to mine, yelling into her phone. "A cubic zirconia knock-off from a department store gift-with-purchase? Are you *kidding* me? Who got the real Tiffany one, you cheating jerk?!"

I froze. Stared. The world tilted.

My hand clenched around the soft leather finger protector in my pocket, crumpling it into a pathetic lump.

My phone rang again. Ethan’s old number, the one still etched in my memory after five years.

I let it ring. And ring. And go to voicemail.

I walked to a trash can in the corner of the lobby. I pulled the cheap silver bracelet from my purse—I’d worn it every day—and dropped it in. The wrinkled finger protector followed.

Five years of devotion. Five years of being his cook, his maid, his emotional punching bag. That was enough to repay a broken finger.

After lunch, Ethan stalked to my desk, his expression stormy. I gave him a flat, disinterested look and went back to my screen.

He loomed beside me, a tense silence emanating from him. Finally, he set his half-finished takeout coffee cup next to my keyboard. "Here. You look tired."

I continued organizing my project handoff files, ignoring the cup.

He hovered, the unasked question about the finger protector hanging in the air. He never asked.

My transfer was approved. I was leaving for Seattle in 48 hours. My work was almost done.

As I left the office that evening, Ethan fell into step beside me, an unusual hesitance in his posture. "I cleared my schedule for Thursday," he announced, as if bestowing a great gift. "We’ll finish the photos."

I shook my head. "I can’t. I have plans."

He stopped, grabbing my arm. "That’s the third time you’ve shut me down today. What is wrong with you?" His voice rose. "Talk to me, Lauren!"

Right on cue, his phone sang Chloe’s song.

The change was instantaneous. The anger evaporated, replaced by urgent concern. He released me, turning away. "Hey, what’s wrong? Okay, okay, breathe. I’m coming."

He didn’t look back. Not once.

He didn’t come home that night.

At 5 AM the next morning, I was jerked from sleep. Ethan was pulling me out of bed. "Up. Now. I bought groceries. Make the breakfast you always make for me. Chloe wants it, and I can’t get it right."

Still half-asleep, I found myself in the kitchen, my fingers curling around the chef’s knife he shoved into my hand. He buzzed around, unloading bags, talking a mile a minute about Chloe’s avocado allergy, how she liked her eggs *just so*, how the bacon had to be crispy but not burnt.

He was animated. Warm. Alive. It was a side of him I rarely saw, reserved exclusively for her.

When he reached for a bundle of celery, I took it first. A quiet, humorless laugh escaped me. "I should make the bone broth too."

He stopped, frowning. "What?"

I began washing the celery, my movements mechanical. "You always finish that. Every last drop. You never leave any." I looked up, meeting his confused eyes. "She must love it."

My calm, my utter lack of hysterics, seemed to throw him. He reached out, his hand covering mine on the knife. His touch was almost… gentle.

"…You don’t have to go all out," he said, his voice uncharacteristically quiet. "It’s just breakfast."

I offered him a small, empty smile. "I’ll write down the recipe for you. Then you can make it for her yourself next time."

He just stared at me, his hand falling away.

I cooked. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, the broth. I packed it all in his favorite insulated carrier. At the door, he turned, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t decipher. "That wedding dress you loved… the one with the long sleeves. I’ll bring it home tonight."

I said nothing. Just watched him leave.

Late that night, a video popped up on my socials from Chloe. It was grainy, loud. Her and Ethan in a dim bar, her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist, their lips locked in a deep, slow kiss. The caption: *"Don’t be mad, Laur! It was just a dare! Didn’t want you to hear it from someone else and get the wrong idea #BestFriends"*

I didn’t reply. I kept packing.

Morning came. My flight time approached. Ethan did not come home with the dress, or at all.

I took one last look around the beautiful, empty brownstone that had never truly felt like a home. All traces of me—my books, my favorite mug, the photos of my family—were already in boxes, headed to storage.

I closed the door. As the Uber pulled away from the curb, I sent one final text.

*Ethan. It’s over. Don’t contact me again. -L*

Then I blocked his number, his email, every social media account.

At the airport, just before boarding, a notification from an unknown number popped up. *"What the hell is this? You’re breaking up with me? I said I’d buy you the damn dress! What more do you want? Stop this now, Lauren, or we are done for real."*

I stared at the words, a weight I hadn’t realized I was carrying finally lifting from my shoulders. I took a deep, clean breath and deleted the message.

Seattle was a revelation. The air was different.