The office emptied slowly that night.
People drifted out in groups of two or three, their chatter fading down the hallway until all that was left was the echo of footsteps and the distant hum of the elevator. My computer screen cast a pale glow over my desk, highlighting the stack of unfinished work I pretended to care about.
But I wasn’t thinking about spreadsheets.
Or reports.
Or deadlines.
I was thinking about him.
About the last thing he asked me.
> “Who else besides your ex-husband has your attention?”
The question had lodged itself under my skin like a splinter I couldn’t remove. Every time I tried to breathe, I felt it.
I shut my laptop and gathered my things, desperate for fresh air. For space. For silence that didn’t echo with his v
