The last time I remember trying to save my relationship, I was sitting on the edge of my bed at eleven forty-seven on a Thursday night, rereading a message I had already read at least twenty times. It was an ordinary message. Nothing cruel, nothing dramatic. Just a few words, followed by a period that

Last Tuesday, I was already late when I opened my closet and saw the dress. It had been hanging there for nearly three years. Dark green. Soft around the shoulders. Simple, but flattering in a way that made me stand a little straighter when I wore it. I remembered exactly why I had bought it.

The first time I realized something was wrong, I was sitting in my car outside a restaurant, staring at my phone. He had texted asking where I was. I was seven minutes late. Seven minutes. I remember feeling my stomach tighten before I even opened the message. Not because I was afraid of him, exactly.

I used to keep a notebook on my bedside table where I wrote down everything I thought I had done wrong that day. Some entries were painfully small. Shouldn’t have spoken up in that meeting. Why did I eat that dessert? You looked awkward at dinner. You should be further along by now. At the