In a sick way, I almost would have preferred that.

Instead, they were intimate, affectionate messages.

Derek remembered their anniversary dates, asked how she slept, sent her links to upscale restaurants, curated playlists, and even dinner recipes.

To me, his texts for the past three years had consisted entirely of:

Pick up milk.

Running late.

Don’t wait up.

I closed the laptop, feeling eleven years of shared history dissolve into a hollow lie.