I kept expecting him to return.
To say he’d made a mistake.
To explain something.
To give me any reason that made sense.
He didn’t.
Within a week, Marcus had rented a place across town.
He returned occasionally to collect mail and personal belongings.
Every visit felt like watching someone quietly dismantle the life we’d shared.
He took a jacket.
Then a box of books.
Later, some tools from the garage.
Small things.
Ordinary things.
Each one made his departure feel more permanent.
And every time I saw him, I asked the same question.
“Why?”
At first, I tried to remain calm.
Then I pleaded.
“Marcus, please. If I did something wrong, just tell me.”
His answer never changed.
“We’ve grown apart, Eleanor.”
“What does that even mean?”
“We aren’t right for each other anymore.”
“After twenty-two years?”
He sighed.
“Please let it go.”
Let it go.
