Fated

We lay in bed together, loosely holding hands in the flickering light of the television. A bitter episode of House of Cards played across the screen. We often held hands. But my hand contained unconditional trust and warm, lasting love. Your hand carried deceit, betrayal, and icy cold lies.

You were still at home when I left for work the next morning, a rare occurrence. You allowed me to kiss you goodbye but you did not look at me. Your eyes were fixed, unseeing, on the morning news. I frowned and asked what was wrong. You simply shook your head. Nothing was wrong. Nothing at all. Go to work.

I didn't hear from you all day. You always called. I rang you mid-afternoon but there was no reply. I sent you a text message an hour later. No reply. Finally, you sent an email. An email, for Chrissakes. I've left you a note at home, it said. I stared at the words as my world crashed down with unexpected force. My heart had never planned for this. I rang you again, confused by your utter cowardice. No reply.

I drove home in a daze of disbelief. I found the note, carefully typed on a sheet of generic office paper. Sorry, it said. It's not you. You are perfect. It's me. Thank you for the eight years you have given me.

Your side of the wardrobe was empty. You'd left one tie behind. It hung in limp and lonely solitude from the herd of coat hangers you'd neglected to take. Your study was also empty, save for the cap of a pen and one small screw which had fallen from your desk. A few threads of loose cotton lay in question marks on the carpet.

Nothing made sense. It still doesn't. But I'm glad that it happened. For you are still trapped in your self-created mire of discontent while I have found my wings and discovered, to my delight, that I am able to soar.

@nceguy68