Your answer was always the same — let’s stabilize my company first, then your little projects.” The memory landed on his face like a blow.

“Is there any universe,” he asked, “any chance, for us?” I’d once agonized over that exact question.

Standing in the sun, the answer was simple.

“No.” Not out of vengeance, but because going back wasn’t forgiveness; it was self-harm — a return to a cage where my worth was undervalued and I was expected to shrink so his ego could grow.

“Goodbye, Warner.” I walked down the steps, and this time he didn’t call my name.

Months later, someone asked me over wine whether it wouldn’t have been more dignified to confront him quietly in the kitchen the night I saw the text.