Kiersten

“—not reversible.” I caught it mid-sentence, like stepping into a room already in motion. The doctor’s hands stayed open between us, not offering, not withdrawing. I watched them—the faint split in the skin along one knuckle, the slow press of thumb to thumb—anything to delay the meaning settling where it would have to stay. A low hum threaded through the room. Ventilation, maybe. It filled the space where the rest of his explanation should have been. Permanent. I looked at you. You leaned forward, elbows on your knees, asking something I couldn’t hear. Your voice reached me in shape, not sound. You’d always worked like that—steady, insistent, certain there was a direction things could still be pushed. For a moment, I leaned into it with you. Let the word mean less. Then the doctor stopped. You didn’t. And that was worse. Your shoulders drew in, just slightly. Your back curved. The breath you let out stalled before it could become anything useful. When you looked at me, it wasn’t confusion. It was something arriving too quickly to soften. I knew, then, what had already ended. — Three days later, the kitchen held the stale trace of coffee I hadn’t poured out. Light cut through the blinds in narrow lines, stopping just short of your hands. I’d signed already. The ink had settled into the paper. I slid it toward you. The pen followed, tapping once against the wood. “Kiersten,” you said, like you were about to correct something small. “I want a divorce.” You reached for the pen, then stopped. Your fingers rested beside it. For a second, nothing moved. Then—so slight it could have been nothing—your shoulders eased. Your jaw loosened before you caught it. I almost missed it. I almost told myself I did. But I was looking for something that would hold. And there it was.