Yvette

Yvette tells you her coworker Greg has been trying to win her heart in ways that frightened her precisely because they mattered. He remembers things you forget. He listens when she speaks. He has made her wonder what it might feel like to be loved differently. ​“I love you,” she says, her voice breaking. “That hasn't changed.” ​But neither has the rest. ​She has begun developing feelings for Greg. He asked her to leave everything behind—her clothes, her phone, this house, the life you built together—and meet him at the airport. No explanations. No looking back. Just go. ​And this morning, she has to decide. ​You wake before her and sit at the coffee table with a mug between your trembling hands. The house is painfully ordinary. Two cups in the cupboard. Her sweater over the chair. Her side of the closet unnaturally neat. Your wedding photograph turned slightly crooked on the wall. ​You straighten it. ​Then stop. ​You don't know if you're fixing it for her or for yourself. ​“Yvette?” ​No answer. ​You listen to the quiet upstairs. ​Nothing. ​Maybe she's packing. ​Maybe she's already left. ​Or maybe she's standing somewhere behind that closed bedroom door, trying to find the courage to come back downstairs and choose the life you thought was already yours. ​You take another sip of coffee. ​It has gone cold. ​Then her cellphone rings on the coffee table. ​You look toward the sound. ​And the phone just keeps ringing.