"You too."
We walked in different directions.
I moved into a smaller apartment.
One bedroom plus a cramped office.
No yard.
Milo initially hated the elevator.
The first night, I slept on a mattress on the floor because my furniture had not arrived.
Milo slept beside me.
At two in the morning, I woke to city light coming through blinds and thought:
I am divorced.
The word felt unreal.
Then relief arrived.
Not happiness.
Relief.
Nobody was deciding between me and someone else.
Nobody was asking me to tolerate the intolerable so I could prove I was secure.
Nobody was using "closure" to make betrayal sound therapeutic.
I was alone.
But I was not waiting.
That distinction saved me.
The months after divorce were less triumphant than people imagine.
I did not immediately start dating younger women.
I did not become obsessed with the gym.
I did not post cryptic quotes.
I worked.
Walked Milo.
Saw Ben.
Went to therapy for a while because anger had begun leaking into places that did not deserve it.
My therapist, Aaron, asked me:
"What are you most afraid you'll carry forward?"
"Suspicion."
"Of women?"
"Of being second."
He nodded.
"Those aren't identical."
I thought about that for weeks.
I had begun interpreting ordinary uncertainty as potential replacement.
If someone took hours to answer a message, my brain noticed.
If a woman mentioned an ex, I stiffened.
I did not want Claire's choices to turn me into a permanent audition committee.
So I stayed single for almost a year.
That surprised friends.
"You're free."
Ben said it one night over drinks.
"Free to do what?"
"Anything."
"I'm thirty-eight with a dog who needs medication twice a day."
"Wild lifestyle."
"Exactly."
What I wanted was not freedom from commitment.
I still believed in commitment.
I needed freedom from being compared to a ghost.
About five months after the divorce, a mutual friend named Rachel messaged me.
Did you hear about Claire?
I almost did not answer.
Then curiosity won.
No. What?
She and Julian are together.
I stared at the screen.
There it was.
The future Claire had told me was merely nostalgia.
Apparently Julian's divorce had progressed.
He contacted her.
They began seeing each other.
For about thirty seconds, I felt vindicated.
I had been right.
Then humiliation followed.
Had Claire been waiting?
Had they stayed in contact despite saying she blocked him?
Had divorce been the obstacle he needed removed?
I almost texted her.
Then stopped.
We were divorced.
Claire no longer owed me explanations about who she dated.
That boundary protected me too.
I put the phone down.
Took Milo outside.
For several weeks, news arrived indirectly.
They seemed happy.
Weekend trips.
Photographs.
Old friends commenting about "full circle."
Someone sent me a screenshot.
I asked them not to send another.
"Why?"
"Because I don't need surveillance footage from a life I'm not in."
That became one of my better decisions.
Claire and Julian lasted six months.
I learned about the breakup accidentally at a birthday dinner.
A mutual friend said:
"Did you hear they split?"
I looked up.
"No."
Then realized from everyone's faces that I was expected to care.
"What happened?"
The story was almost painfully predictable.