That afternoon, I returned to the office and handed in my resignation letter.

“Does Kit know you’re quitting?” my supervisor, Holly Thatcher, asked in surprise.

After all, I had been the airline’s top flight attendant for seven consecutive years—a shining star with a bright future ahead.

I gave her a faint, bitter smile. “I’ll tell him tonight, though I doubt he’ll care.”

She sighed.

“You two started flying new routes together and won all those company awards. Even the CEO attended your wedding three years ago. Everyone was so envious… but—”

She trailed off with a heavy sigh, her voice thick with regret.

Yes, those were beautiful memories.

And that’s all they would remain, things you couldn’t return to, no matter how much you wanted to.

By the time I got home, it was already past ten.

The apartment was eerily quiet.

Then my phone lit up with a notification from Katy’s latest social media post in which she had tagged me in.

[Thank you to my teacher, Mr. Rutgers, for staying with me all afternoon! As a reward, I’m taking him to Bruno Mars’ concert tomorrow! Can’t wait!]

I knew then—Kit, who had said at lunch he would come home, wasn’t coming back.

It wasn’t the first time this had happened in the three years since we married.

I made myself a simple bowl of instant noodles and opened my inbox.

Staring at over a dozen offers from international airlines, my cursor hovered over the email from Air Montclaire.

I clicked “Accept” and booked a flight the day after tomorrow to Solara without a second thought.

Five years ago, during a mission to Solara, Kit experienced the most traumatic incident of his flying career.

From that moment on, the city became a forbidden word.

Not only did he stop flying there, but he never let me fly there either.

“Once I set foot in Solara, we’ll never meet again, Kit,” I thought to myself.

The next morning, I woke up and immediately began packing my suitcase.

I was only halfway through when Kit walked through the door, wearing a pale pink dress shirt.

Trailing behind him was a strong wave of rose perfume.

The scent hit me hard, and I froze for a moment.

He used to hate the smell of perfume.

For that reason, all these years together, I never wore any.

I had even thrown out my entire collection, including bottles I had cherished for years.

But now I understood—he didn’t hate perfume. He just didn’t like it on me.

He paused briefly when he saw me packing, a flicker of surprise in his eyes.

“Katy sobered up very late last night,” he said.

“I booked a hotel room alone and stayed there—that’s why I didn’t come home.”

I glanced up at him in surprise.

It was the first time in our three years of marriage that he had ever offered an explanation for his absence.

I nodded, saying nothing.

He slowly stepped closer, looking down as he asked, “Are you packing for a flight assignment?”

I nodded again.

“Something like that.”

At my answer, he seemed, for reasons I couldn’t quite name, to exhale in relief.

Then he added, “I’ve got a few things to take care of today. Just stopped by to grab something. I won’t stay for lunch.”

“Alright.”

I didn’t look up and kept packing my suitcase.

I had planned to tell him over lunch that I’d quit my job, to finally draw a full stop on our eight-year relationship.

But that was not going to happen now.

Kit grabbed a red paper bag, picked up the jacket hanging by the door, and rushed out.

Just then, the picture frame that had hung by the doorway for eight years suddenly fell to the floor.

Glass shattered across the tiles.

I glanced over.

It was a photo of us at our first concert together. Our hands were clasped together, grinning like we had no care in the world.

That night, he had promised me that no matter how busy life got, he’d take me to a concert every year.

But once Katy became his student, he forgot all the promises he had made to me.

The clock ticked steadily in the empty room.

I sat still for a long while before quietly sweeping up the broken glass.

Then, I tossed the photo, along with whatever affection that still lingered in my heart, into the trash.

By evening, I had finished packing and collapsed onto the bed, drained and exhausted.

Just then, my best friend called.

“What the hell is going on with Kit? He’s completely out of line. Have you seen his social media?

“He’s flaunting his relationship with that vixen Katy like it’s some fairytale romance.

“You two aren’t even divorced—how can he do this?”

As she ranted, I casually scrolled through Instagram.

Right at the top of my feed was a new post from Katy.

In the photo, she wore a Van Cleef & Arpels clover necklace around her neck and held the same red gift bag Kit had picked up from home earlier.

That’s when it hit me.

He had returned at noon just to grab her present.

Below the image was a caption that made my stomach turn:

[Three years of knowing you, and I’m so lucky to have you, Kit. Happy third anniversary!]

Then it dawned on me.

Anniversary?

That’s right. Today was supposed to be our third wedding anniversary.

But we had never once celebrated it.

Not even enough for me to remember it.

I let out a long breath and finally replied to my friend.

“He doesn’t need to file for a divorce. We never got our marriage license.”

“What? You’ve been married three years, and Kit never made it official?”

Her shock nearly blew out my eardrum through the speaker.

Yes.

The wedding was three years ago, and he had called off registering our marriage seventeen times.