Faded love, I don't want it anymore

I opened my laptop and began to write a letter.

When it was done, I folded it neatly, slipped it into an envelope, and placed it beneath my resignation form.

Then I took off my wedding ring and set it on top.

The metal was cold, its reflected light sharp enough to make me squint.

The living room lights were a sterile white.

I carried my coffee out. Rory was sitting on the sofa, long fingers turning through a stack of documents.

It was his nightly ritual—work, plans, schedules, directives. Perfect. Predictable. Unfaltering.

Without looking up, he asked evenly, “Did the application get approved?”

“Mm.”

“Resignation?” His tone didn’t change. “What for?”

“Rest.”

He paused for a moment, then curved his lips into that humorless almost-smile.

“You’re not suited for rest. When people have too much time, they tend to overthink.”

He’d said those exact words once before—

the night I lost our child.

When I came home from the hospital, he was, as usual, in his study reviewing papers.

I had stood in the doorway, trembling, my clothes still carrying the metallic tang of blood and disinfectant.

He looked up briefly and said,

“Wendy, don’t overthink. Be rational.”

Rational.

His favorite word.

I looked at his manicured nails, at the wedding band trimmed with a faint gold edge, and suddenly felt a hollow, lucid kind of grief.

He never belonged to love.

He belonged to order.

“What’s for dinner?” he asked.

“Whatever you like.”

He nodded, satisfied—as if speaking to a competent assistant.

“The charity gala tomorrow—don’t forget to prepare your outfit.”

“Okay.”

“Sybil will be there too.”

My fingers froze.

He went on casually, “She’s just returned. There’s a joint project with her foundation. The media will be there—don’t embarrass yourself.”

I lifted my gaze to that forever calm, composed face.

“She’s back?”

“Mm. I met her this afternoon.”

He added, almost as an afterthought, “She looks gentler than before.”

I smiled.

And in that instant, I understood exactly how cold his rationality was.

He could lay open an old wound at the dinner table and call it business.

After dinner, I cleared the dishes as usual.

He stood on the balcony, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and smooth:

“Sybil, I’ve adjusted the seating for tomorrow. You’ll be beside me.”

A glass slipped from my hand and shattered across the floor.

“What happened?” he asked, turning slightly.

“Nothing.”

I knelt to pick up the shards.

A sliver cut my fingertip—blood welled and dripped, bright against the white tile.

He frowned, fetched the first-aid kit from the cabinet, and said in that same flat tone,

“You’re always like this.”

He dressed the wound deftly.

“Next time, don’t lose focus,” he added, as if reprimanding an employee.

The smell of antiseptic burned my nose, and I suddenly laughed.

He looked up. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

I shook my head.

It just struck me—this life of mine felt more like death than death itself.

Night deepened.

After his shower, he came out with a towel hanging loosely at his waist.

I pretended to be asleep.

He lifted the blanket and lay down beside me, his skin carrying that faint, cool scent of soap and fatigue.

He wrapped an arm around my waist out of habit—his touch as cold as the aftertaste of a drink at a business dinner.

“Wendy,” he murmured near my ear, “don’t quit your job on a whim again.”

“Okay.”

“Be rational.”

He closed his eyes.

I stared at the ceiling and quietly counted my breaths—

one, two, three—

until he fell asleep.

And in that moment, I knew.

I was leaving.

Not because I hated him.

But because I finally refused to keep living as his version of rational.