Inside the taxi, Nayla sat still, almost statuesque. Her posture was upright, as if she were trying to hold onto the last shreds of dignity that hadn’t yet slipped through her fingers.
Her tears didn’t burst. They fell slowly, like dew on the edge of leaves. Quiet, but relentless.
No sobs. No sound. Just tears flowing without asking for permission.
On her lap, a gray folder from the divorce consultant lay half-open, revealing neat documents that somehow felt cruel. Her life, reduced to data, clauses, and paperwork. A marriage she had fought for unraveling into legal terms and signature lines.
Nayla wasn’t crying for Nathan. No. Not at all. Not anymore.
The tears fell because she never imagined herself sitting in that chair. Opening her mouth to speak of the failure she had tried so ha
