Two weeks later, Jack had wrestled with the thought, his mind a battlefield of despair and hope. The image of Elsa and Dylan together at the networking event haunted him, an open wound playing at the back of his closed eyes. Her laughter, that bright smile he once believed was his, now belonged to another. It forced him to confront a reality he had been trying to avoid for days. She was moving on, and he was still tied to the wreckage of what they used to be.
He'd spent the days since in a daze. Work, usually his sanctuary, had been a mess of half-designed blueprints and unreturned emails. The silence of his house weighed on him, thick and suffocating, as if the walls themselves mourned her passing. Her favorite cup still remains at the back of the cupboard. The blanket she always wrapped herself in during movie nights is draped over the arm of the couch. Jack had relocated all of Elsa's things from their cottage. They had built little remnants of a life, now hollow reminders of everything they had lost.
The living room was filled with a dim, amber glow as Jack sat in his old rocking chair. Its soft creak was the sole sound, a metronome for his tumbling thoughts. His thumb absently traced circles on the worn wood; his eyes gazed at the ceiling. Shadows gathered in the corners like old ghosts, curling themselves around the room's edges, whispering of moments lost and opportunities not seized.
He had been considering endings a lot lately. Her leaving hadn't felt like an ending but a painful pause, an open wound left to fester. But this…this was something different. This was shutting the book; this was walking out of the darkened cinema when the credits had finished rolling. There was no further story, no hidden scenes to pull him back.
A shudder ran through him. He breathed in deeply, his chest tight, the truth of what he would do sinking like stones in his lungs. His phone was on the arm of the chair, an inanimate object of metal and glass, yet his hand went to it, decisive. A contradiction to the conflict beneath his skin.
He dialled Anastasia's number, his fingers moving with a mechanical precision. The call rang twice before her familiar, no-nonsense voice answered.
"Morning, Anastasia. How are you?" His own voice sounded foreign, too smooth, too calm.
"Jack. I'm good. How's everything on your end?" Her tone was polite and professional, but beneath it lay a softness she reserved for her long-term clients. A cautious kindness.
"I've made my mind up." He stopped, the words brittle as glass on his tongue, cutting and frail. "I want to proceed with the divorce."
There was a silence, a cautious pause that was like the world drawing a breath. "Are you sure? " Anastasia's voice eased, a strand of concern running through her professional demeanor. "You don't have to rush into it."
Jack closed his eyes, the memory of Elsa's smile aimed at another man still evident on the backs of his eyelids. The scene replayed in ruthless detail. Her thrilled laugh and the comfortable way she had touched Dylan's arm. "It's been a year, Ana. I think it's time."
Her voice dropped into the clipped cadence of a lawyer. "Since you've already been separated for a year, it should be easy. I'll draw up the papers and mail them to her. Do you want to include any personal notes?"
His breath stopped. What could he say? What words could infiltrate the stark, clinical lines of legal documents? That he still loved her? That he had stayed awake every day waiting for her to return? "No. Just…keep it simple."
"All right. I'll get it started."
When the call ended, Jack remained seated, his phone still clutched in his hand. His knuckles were white against the dark metal, and his skin stretched tight over bone.
The world around him felt muted, as if the air itself had thickened, pressing in from all sides. He stood, his movements mechanical. His legs took him to his study, a room filled with the remnants of a life once so rich in meaning: blueprints, old notebooks, a chessboard dusty with disuse, all these relics of his old self, of the man he was when he was with her.
His gaze landed on a miniature portrait of Elsa on the wall.
The photo was taken on one of those infrequent sunny days in Iceland. Elsa was laughing, her head tossed back, strands of hair tangled by the wind. The photo wasn't perfect; the angle was a bit off, and the light was uneven, but it was perfect for him. Her joy had been pure and unburdened. A pained smile twisted his lips as he reached out, his fingers brushing the rim of the frame. His touch was tentative and gentle.
"I miss you, Snowflake," he breathed, the words barely more than a whisper. "But it's time to finally let you go."
It was time.
The knock at the door was soft but insistent, a sound that threaded anxiety through the quiet afternoon. Elsa wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and moved to answer, her attention still half on the pot bubbling on the stove. The house smelled of rosemary and thyme, a warm, homey scent that wrapped around her like a blanket. She wasn't expecting anyone. A courier stood on the porch, his face carefully blank. "Ms. Arendelle?"
"Yes?" He extended a large envelope, its thick, crisp cream-colored paper.
"This is for you. Please sign here." She signed her name on the electronic pad, and the whole exchange was mundane until it wasn't.
The door shut behind her, and the house seemed to exhale, the envelope a sudden weight in her hands. Elsa sat down on the couch, her fingers working under the edge of the envelope. The quiet rip of the paper was the only sound, but it sounded in her ears, ringing and ominous. Her heart accelerated a slow drumbeat of dread.
His and her names in bold black letters seemed to burn the ivory paper on the top page.
She gasped. "No." Her voice was reedy, weak, as if the word itself could unravel her.
The divorce papers fanned out around her as she dropped them, the legal jargon blurring before her eyes. Her hands trembled a fine, uncontrollable shake. She slapped a hand over her mouth, the other clenching the edge of the couch as though it might anchor her to the ground. Tears fell, warm and unwelcome.
She rocked forward, the motion instinctive, as though trying to cradle the pain in her chest. "Jack…no."
Her voice broke on a wail of raw anguish. She doubled over, face in her hands, the sobs wracking and uncontrollable. Her body shook, torn by a storm of grief and longing. She wanted to hate him, to blame him for leaving.
But inside, she knew this was her doing. Her phone was on the coffee table, his name a dial away. Her hand was on it, fingers brushing the chilly glass. What would she say?
That she still loved him? That every morning without him was hollow? But she couldn't. Her fingers tightened into a fist, and she withdrew her hand.
Her weeping ceased, and she was left hollow. She lay so for a long time, her body stretched out across the scattered pages, her tears drying on her skin. When she finally moved, it was slowly, each movement deliberate. She gathered up the pages, smoothing the creases with a gentleness that was nearly reverence. She set them on the coffee table, their edges exactly even.
Then, rubbing her face with the back of her hand, she drew a shaking breath.
The future stretching out before her without him opened out a barren wasteland. But it was decided. The decision she had known was the only one that would keep him safe. And so, with one final, hurting look at the papers, she stood and turned away. Her footsteps were soft but echoed like thunder in the quiet room.
She walked away from the papers and wreckage of their marriage, each step an effort.
And she never looked back.
I'm sorry, but this one's short. I will be back with my usual 3000-word chapters.