Seven years of emotional entanglement, and I was finally, utterly exhausted. It wasn't a grand explosion that finished us. It was a notification on our seventh anniversary. A trending topic on social media that cut through the noise of my day: “New Celestial Discovery Officially Named: Parker Ward.” I clicked the link. The post was from my wife, Talia. The caption read: “Naming a star after you so that even in the vastness of the universe, you will never be lonely.” Benedicteath it, a comment from her junior colleague at the lab: “I’m so happy you decided to share this private romance with the world, Talia! You’ve made me the happiest man alive.” In the past, I would have spiraled. I would have called her a hundred times, demanding an explanation, begging for a reason why her "exclusive" love was being gifted to another man. But this time, I didn't reach for the phone. I didn't feel the familiar sting of tears. I just felt… done. 1. When Talia finally came home, I was out on the balcony, a cigarette burning between my fingers. She hated the smell. She used to wrinkle her nose and lecture me on lung capacity and the sanctity of our shared air. Because of her, I’d forced myself to quit years ago, enduring the shakes and the irritability of withdrawal just to keep her smiling. She saw me smoking now and paused, a flicker of surprise crossing her face. But she didn't scold me. She reached into her bag and handed me a small, velvet-lined box. Her voice was flat, professional. “Happy seventh anniversary.” “Sorry I’m late. Things got crazy at the lab. I forgot to call.” “It’s fine,” I said, taking one last drag before stubbing the cherry out. I opened the box. It was a necklace—a delicate silver chain with a star-shaped pendant. I snapped the box shut. “I love it. Thank you.” Talia froze. Whatever excuse she had rehearsed died in her throat. She looked at me, waiting for the interrogation, the accusations, the inevitable fight. She expected me to be hysterical after seeing the news. I had expected that of myself, too. I had made reservations at the restaurant where I proposed. I’d bought fireworks. I’d taken the afternoon off to wait for her outside the Space Research Institute, wanting to surprise her. I didn't find her. I found a headline instead. “Minor Planet 960306 officially designated the ‘Parker Ward Star.’ Lead Astronomer Talia Vaughn credits the discovery to a ‘significant personal inspiration.’” Talia’s post was the top result. “Named for you. Wear the sky like a crown. You are never alone.” The photo attached was of her and Parker at a dimly lit French bistro, their faces pressed close together. Parker was holding the framed celestial certificate, beaming. His comment—“Sharing our private romance with everyone, thank you, Talia!”—had ten thousand likes. I had tossed my phone onto the passenger seat and driven to our reserved dinner alone. I sat under the display of fireworks I’d paid for, eating two steaks by myself, a silent wake for a seven-year marriage that was already dead. As I reached for a second cigarette, Talia suddenly snatched the lighter from my hand. Her brow furrowed. “I thought you quit, Benedict.” “I felt like having one,” I said, putting the pack away and turning to head to the bedroom. She grabbed my wrist, her eyes searching mine, filled with a sudden, localized panic. “It’s our anniversary.” I looked at her, truly looked at her. “And?” Her grip tightened. “You didn't get me anything? Are you really going to bed this early?” She leaned in to kiss me. Talia had always possessed this magnetic contradiction—cool, intellectual distance paired with a sudden, feline sensuality. Usually, when she initiated, I was a goner. But as she got closer, I smelled it. Not her perfume. Not the sterile scent of the lab. It was the smell of menthol cigarettes. Parker’s brand. I stepped back, tilting my head away from her lips. “You had a long day at work,” I said quietly. “Get some rest.” 2. I ignored her stunned expression and went to the bathroom to wash up. When I came out, my phone buzzed with a message. It was from Luke, my business partner and oldest friend. “Are you serious about the Paris move? Can you really leave Talia? If you fly back after two days because you miss her, I’m going to kill you myself.” I typed back immediately: “I’m serious. If I turn back this time, you have my permission to take me out.” Three years ago, our firm needed someone to spearhead the European branch. I’d discussed it with Talia, and we’d agreed it was a great move. But three days after I landed, she called me, crying, saying she had a stomach flu and couldn't cope alone. I caught the next flight back. I stayed behind to keep her world steady, while Luke handled the travel. We had been together for twelve years—five dating, seven married. Since high school, I knew she was the kind of person who got lost in her work. I didn't trust the world to look after her. Our friends often asked why a guy like me—someone who valued a warm home and a shared life—was with a woman who didn't even know how to boil an egg. They said she was a great Muse, but a terrible wife. I always told them: “She saved me. Mentally and physically.” Because of my family history, I’d struggled with deep clinical depression in my twenties. At my lowest point, when I was ready to let the tide take me, she was the one who pulled me back. She was a slip of a girl, barely a hundred pounds, dragging my dead weight away from the edge. She went to every therapy session with me. Rain or shine. When I finally got better, I asked her, “Weren’t you scared? You were so young.” She’d just shrugged, looking out at the horizon. “I couldn't stand the thought of someone with a smile like yours leaving the world. We have a long time left, Benedict. I want to see the world with you.” The Talia from back then probably never imagined she’d become the reason my depression flared up again. Life isn't a multiple-choice test. And I was no longer the answer she was looking for. Luke, who had watched our entire history, sensed something was different. “The world is huge, Benedict. There’s better food, more interesting people, and a future that doesn't involve you being a second-place trophy. July 1st is tomorrow. New month, new start.” A moment later, another text: “The Paris office opens in a week. Forget the girl, brother. Let’s get rich.” 3. The next morning, I woke up early for our monthly board meeting. To my surprise, Talia was in the kitchen, hovering over the stove. I blinked, momentarily disoriented. I only knew she could cook because of Parker’s Instagram. The kid loved documenting his life—especially the parts that belonged to me. He’d post photos of her making him spicy ramen during late-night shifts. He’d post about her picking him up in the rain. He’d post the carefully chosen gifts she bought for his birthday. Just like the star. He’d pouted that he wanted one, and she’d simply given it to him. I had spent the previous night in a fit of digital masochism, scrolling through Parker’s feed, watching the highlights of their "mentorship" turn into a full-blown romance. “Benedict, come eat,” Talia said, pulling me toward the table. “I made that oatmeal you like.” I picked up the spoon, took one bite, and set it down. She looked at me, confused. “What’s wrong?” I looked at the bowl. “I only eat it with brown sugar and honey, Talia. I like it sweet.” I’d told her once that sweet things helped with the dopamine. I had a sweet tooth that bordered on an addiction. She froze for a few seconds, her face flushing. “I… there are eggs in the kitchen. I’ll make those instead.” I shook my head. “Don’t bother. I’m in a hurry.” I’d seen Parker’s post from yesterday: “Yay! Talia promised to make me breakfast tomorrow. Savory oatmeal with poached eggs and sea salt. My favorite!” As I headed for the door, she grabbed my arm, her frustration finally boiling over. “Are you still sulking? Because of yesterday? I told you, it was a work emergency. I apologized.” “The research project is in its final phase, Benedict. As the lead, I can’t just put my personal life first. You’ve always supported my career. Why are you acting out now?” She was right. That was the dynamic we’d established. I loved her, so I was the shock absorber. I tolerated the forgotten birthdays, the missed anniversaries, the days where she wouldn't even text to say she was alive. I told myself it was for her dream. Until the day she finished a major study and I went to pick her up. She was sitting in her car, laughing at her phone. The woman who always said texting was a "tedious waste of time" was typing a mile a minute, her face lit up with a genuine, effortless joy. That was the first time I heard his name. Parker. The "clumsy but brilliant" intern. That was the day I realized she didn't hate texting. She just hated texting me. I pulled my arm out of her grasp. My gaze was level, empty. “I’m tired, Talia. These years… I’m just tired.” “We should—” I didn't get to finish. Her phone rang. The ringtone was a theme from an anime I knew she didn't watch. She didn't even check the ID before answering. Her voice softened instantly. “Hey. What’s up?” She probably didn't realize how her expression melted into something tender. Parker’s voice was loud enough for me to hear through the receiver. He sounded like a whining child. “Talia, I’m starving! When are you coming back to the lab? If I faint from hunger, it’s on your conscience.” Talia laughed, a sound I hadn't heard in months. “You ate a mountain of wings last night. How are you hungry already?” “Fine, I’m coming now.” I felt a cold smirk tug at my lips. The boy on the phone seemed to sense something. “Oh, hey, tell your husband I said hi. Since I stole his star and kept you late for our celebratory dinner on your anniversary, I should probably buy him a drink or something. To say thanks.” 4. Talia’s eyes flickered with a brief, sharp guilt. She took a step back, clutching the phone. I didn't say a word. I turned to leave. She hung up abruptly and chased after me, insisting on driving me to work. “The star… Parker was a huge part of that research,” she said as we got into the car. “I couldn't just take all the credit. It was his birthday, and he mentioned wanting a star, so I figured it was a good way to reward his hard work.” “The dinner was a group thing, Benedict. It wasn't just us. Don’t overthink it, okay?” I looked out the window. She had been working on this planetary research for three years. Parker had been there for three months. The lie was so insulting it was almost funny. She didn't realize that whenever she lied, she fidgeted with the hem of her shirt. It was a tell I’d known since we were twenty. She dropped me off at the office, but before I could even get through the lobby, her phone rang again. Parker. A "crisis" at the lab. She looked at me with an apologetic shrug and sped off. It didn't even hurt anymore. The rain started that afternoon. A typical Seattle deluge. I got soaked running to a meeting and by evening, I was shivering with a high fever. I was lying on the couch, drifting in and out of a sweat-soaked sleep, wanting to ask Talia for some Tylenol. I heard her in the bedroom, but she wasn't getting medicine. She was changing her clothes. “Parker’s water heater burst,” she said, not looking at me. “He doesn't know how to fix it. I’m going over to help.” I stared at her. I didn't know whether to ask why an astrophysics genius couldn't call a plumber, or why my wife was the designated handyman for her intern. She didn't give me the chance. She was out the door in minutes. She didn't notice the thermostat was set to sixty-five, or that her husband was shaking under three blankets. She wasn't like the girl in college who used to scold me for running into air-conditioned libraries after soccer practice. “Do you think you’re invincible?” she’d barked, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a tissue. “You’re going to get a fever, and then I’m the one who has to nurse you back to health!” At the office the next day, Luke dropped a thick file on my desk. “Start memorizing. If you mess up the Paris transition, I’m kicking you out of the partnership.” I dove into the work like it was a lifeline. I stayed until the building was nearly empty. Before I left, I opened my email and saw the draft from my lawyer. The divorce papers were ready. I printed them out. Outside, the storm had turned into a nightmare. I drove to Talia’s institute, the papers sitting on the passenger seat. When I pulled into the underground garage, my phone buzzed. A notification from social media. Parker had posted a video. It was from a Comic-Con event a few weeks back. In the video, Parker had won a gaming tournament. In his excitement, he grabbed Talia in the middle of the crowded hall and kissed her. Deeply. The caption: “From the moment I met you, I wondered if I could ever have you openly. Now, I finally do.” I turned off the screen and leaned my head back, laughing at the ceiling of my car. Twelve years. We had spent our entire adult lives together. And yet, the woman in that video was a complete stranger. I started to put the car in reverse when I heard a muffled shout from a few rows over. 5. “Talia, please! Don’t do this to me...” “I love you... is that a crime? I’ve loved you since you gave that guest lecture at my school...” I followed the sound. Parker, tall and lanky, had Talia pinned against the side of her car. His eyes were bloodshot, his face a mask of desperate youth. In a fit of dramatic despair, he leaned down and crushed his lips against hers. I saw her hands, which had been hanging at her sides, slowly rise. They slid up his chest and locked behind his neck. They stood there in the shadows of the garage, lost in a long, rain-slicked kiss. CRACK— A sudden bolt of lightning illuminated the garage, followed by a roar of thunder that shook the concrete. “Who’s there!” Parker snapped. They both turned and saw me standing ten feet away. Their heavy breathing was the only sound in the silence that followed. Talia looked like she’d seen a ghost. Her face went bone-white. “Benedict... Benedict, why are you here?” I walked toward them, one slow step at a time. “Sir, it’s not what it looks like,” Parker stammered, stepping in front of her. “It’s not her fault. I’m the one who loves her, it’s all—” I didn't let him finish. I put every ounce of my twelve years of suppressed resentment into a single punch that sent him sprawling across the wet pavement. Then, I pulled my wedding ring off and threw it at Talia. It hit her shoulder and clattered to the ground. The shock seemed to snap her out of it. She shoved Parker away, her voice rising to a frantic pitch. “Benedict, let me explain! It’s not—” I cut her off, thrusting the divorce papers into her hands. “Talia. We’re done.”
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