Page 17 of Seven Minutes
God, it hurt even now to watch it all go wrong and not scream out for time to STOP.
And to watch him try to fix it with that godawful house. It played back now in cruel glimpses, mocking me with everything it wasn’t.
Itwasperfect, in the way a magazine picture is perfect—modern, minimalist, all clean lines and white walls that smelled faintly of fresh paint and bleach. It didn’t feel likeus.
I wanted the 1930s cottage we’d seen first. The one with the cracked retaining wall and wild jasmine choking the fence. The place that felt lived in. Loved. The realtor called it a fixer-upper, but I saw possibility in every splintered window frame and scuffed floorboard. It reminded me of Decatur Street.
“This one’s got character,” I’d said, half-laughing, tracing a fingertip along the chipped kitchen counter.
Adrian had smiled, weary, distracted. “You deserve somewhere new. Somewhere that doesn’t need fixing.”
He meant it as love. I heard it as a distance.
The sold sign staked in the front yard flashed like a neon sign, another memory I didn’t want to relive.
We bought the sterile house, the one that looked like no one had ever laughed inside it. Adrian told me it would make me happy, that I’d have space to unwind while he was gone so much. But all it did was make the loneliness louder.
I filled the quiet with music, TV, takeout boxes, anything to drown out the grief of a life we were supposed to be sharing but somehow weren’t.
And still, I waited up. Every night.
Even now, I relived my hope that he’d walk through the door, drop his keys, and look at me the way he used to.
Like I was still home.
Some nights, I hated him.
Not the kind of hate that burns down houses, but the quiet kind, the kind that sits at the kitchen table and stares at theclock. The kind that asks,How much longer do I have to keep being the only one here?
Quick phone calls between shifts, his voice thin and tired.
He didn’t want to hear about case law and overemotional clients. He didn’t want me to relay office gossip and my mother’s trip to California. Not really. He’d had a day just as long as mine, if not longer.
So I said,Good.
And he said,That’s good.
And then there was silence again, that vast, humming void that fills your head until you start to believe it’s normal.
A montage of conversations with myself, out loud. At first, by accident, a passing comment about the mail, or what to make for dinner. Then it became a habit. Filling in for the conversations we used to have.
I asked him questions he wasn’t there to answer.
Do you still love me like before?
Am I asking for too much, or just the wrong things?
Nights of replaying old videos of us laughing, drunk on cheap wine and sunlight, wedding songs spilling from the speaker as we danced barefoot in the grass. As it passed behind my closed lids, it felt like spying on strangers.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was realizing he was still good. Still kind. Still the man I fell in love with. Not a cheat. Not an abuser or a drunk. Just tired. Just gone.
You can’t even be angry when love dies of exhaustion. There’s no villain, no betrayal. Just two people who meant every word of their vows, and then ran out of ways to live them.
It happened on a Tuesday.Tuesdays were always quiet, too far from the weekend to hope, too close to the start of the week to reset.
The decision to file for separation wasn’t impulsive or angry. Just… inevitable.
The reel replayed the call from the attorney in the parking lot outside the grocery store, hands shaking around my phone, my voice small. I didn’t even pick the firm I worked for. I couldn’t stomach the thought of whispers, of sympathetic glances passed over coffee and copier toner. I wanted anonymity. Clean paperwork. A merciful erasure.
