Saying My Final Farewell to Him

I'd accuse her of lacking boundaries and she'd snap back, calling me insecure and petty. We'd argue until we were both worn out, parting in silence that clung like smoke after a fire.

But tonight, as she glanced at me, expecting a familiar spark of resentment, I stayed calm. Her face fell, uncertain. "Are you angry?" she asked again, her voice holding a wary edge.

I couldn't hold back a bitter laugh. "Lyra, I really don't mind. What's making you so anxious? Even if you both shared a bed, I wouldn't blink an eye."

She squinted, searching my face for a trace of my old anger. When she found none, she exhaled, visibly relaxing. "Good, as long as you're not upset. He's only staying one night; he'll be gone by tomorrow."

The sound of running water came from the bathroom and then Jonah's voice called out, "Lyra, can you grab me a towel?"

"Coming," she replied, picking up a fresh towel and heading to the bathroom without hesitation.

I watched as she went, her tone absurdly gentle as she reminded him, "Be careful, the floor is slippery."

A memory of similar moments flashed in my mind, times when I'd needed a towel or a small favor. She'd always huff, barely masking her irritation, her words clipped: "Can't you handle that yourself? What would you do without me?"

I thought bitterly, it wasn't the task that bothered her—it was me.

At ten o'clock, Lyra knocked softly on the study door, her voice tentative. "When are you going to bed?"

Without looking up from my laptop, I replied evenly, "You go ahead. I'll sleep in here tonight."

Her footsteps receded and soon the apartment settled into an uneasy quiet. I wasn't sure when I fell asleep, but when I awoke, the digital clock on my desk read 3 a.m. I was parched, so I started to get up for a glass of water when I heard muted voices seeping through the wall from the bedroom.

Jonah's low voice, slightly smug, cut through the silence. "Lyra, don't you think this is exciting?"

I could hear Lyra's whisper, her tone full of a breathy, teasing scold. "Stop it. My husband is in the study. If he hears us, there'll be trouble."

Jonah's voice turned sullen. I imagined Lyra coaxing him with that familiar softness. "Be patient. Tomorrow night, I'll say I have to work late and then I'll spend the whole night with you."

The corner of my mouth curled into a smirk as I quietly closed my laptop.

***

The next morning, I left for work early, slipping out while the apartment was still in shadows. By the time Lyra's calls began, I'd already submitted my resignation letter.

My boss, looking bewildered, called me into his office. "Finley, you're at a crucial point here. Your career's just gaining traction. Are you sure about this? Is something going on that I can help with?"

I shook my head, managing a polite smile. "Thank you, but I'm ready for a change. I want to start fresh, somewhere new."

He sighed, eyeing me with concern before reluctantly approving my resignation.

Lyra, still drowsy, finally got through to me as I was walking out of the building. "Honey, do you want breakfast? I'll make something when I get home," she offered, her voice smooth with an affectionate tone that felt oddly out of place.

I kept my voice neutral. "I've already eaten."

In the early years of our marriage, breakfast had been one of her small ways of showing care. She'd pack neat little sandwiches for me, cut fruit into shapes. But that had stopped after one morning when I'd absently reached for a sandwich she'd made and her face had turned cold as steel.

"That's not for you," she'd snapped. "Are you that greedy? That's for a client!"

Later, I'd learned the truth. The breakfast hadn't been for a client—it was for Jonah. I'd found out he'd once mentioned craving a sandwich on social media and Lyra had gone out of her way to make it happen.

On the other end of the call, Lyra paused, then spoke, her voice softer. "Tonight… why don't you wait for me at home? I'll come back early and cook dinner for us."

It didn't matter anymore. I knew what I needed to do. The decision was already made—our marriage was coming to an end.