You haven’t looked at me the same since. Your eyes have gone cold. I suppose it was bound to happen at some point, I just wish I knew when I pushed you too far. When was the moment your mind changed, and when did you start to hide it? Somewhere along the road, as milestones turned to paving stones we relentlessly rode over, you decided you would leave me behind. 

It wasn’t always like it was. Somewhere between our first kiss and our first kid I was convinced I loved you. And somewhere after that I knew I didn’t. That hurt to realise. But I still tried to make it work. I guess I didn’t succeed, or get anywhere close. At least I never had my foot halfway out the door, like you did. You pulled away from any attempts I made. You weaponised the side of your face, and that unshakeable gaze of yours into a point I could never quite see. You turned away from me until I gave in. You gave up on me. So I gave up on you. 

I thought that was the way we’d leave it, honour our commitments, spare the kids. We could never have found fulfilment in each other, as we promised at our wedding, so we’d find other ways. You had your classes, and your friends, and the kids. I had work. And what you found on my other phone. 

I never let her in our home. Or any of the others, because I know you know there were others. I never let them in our bed. They never saw the children, I never spoke to them about the children, or you or anything. That wasn’t what it was. I need you to believe me. I need you to believe me about this at least. 

You didn’t have to send me the papers at work. It was humiliating, everyone saw. I told you I’d come to the meeting, I told you. I told you I’d sign what you wanted. 

So I’ll put on my best tie. The one you bought me. I’ll put on my best cologne and my best suit and I’ll wear it like a back brace. I don’t think I could stand without it. Across the table I’ll see you once more. It’ll be different this time. I’ll look at you and you’ll look through me. 

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