I picked up my purse, said goodbye to his friends, and walked out.
He didn’t follow.
Didn’t call.
Didn’t even notice I was gone.
That was when something inside me went quiet.
Not broken.
Not angry.
Just… clear.
I drove home through the cold rain, gripping the wheel.
By the time I parked, I wasn’t crying anymore.
I was thinking.
Planning.
Midnight found me standing in the living room, surrounded by boxes.
His words replayed in my head.
“We’re not married. You don’t own me.”
I sealed the first box.
“You’re right,” I whispered.
“I don’t.”
By dawn, half the apartment was empty.
My clothes.
My books.
The photos.
Gone.
Only one empty nail remained on the wall—where a memory used to hang.
I left my key on the counter.
Next to a short note:
“You’re right. I don’t.”
Then I walked away.
Before he came back.
Before he could see what his “freedom” actually cost.
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