The night after that last email, something inside me just… went quiet.No fear. No rage.Just a hollow click, like a switch being turned off.
For weeks I'd lived in the static of guilt — the whispers, the mirrors, the phantom footsteps. But when dawn bled through the curtains that morning, I realized I was done fighting ghosts.I didn't care who sent those messages anymore.I didn't care if they found out.Let them.
When I looked at her, sitting on the edge of the bed with her hair a tangled mess and her eyes swollen from crying, I didn't feel hate or pity. I felt nothing.And that nothing was freedom.
Over breakfast, I said it casually, like asking about the weather."I think we should get a divorce."
Her spoon clattered against the bowl. "What?"
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't look at her."It's over, Mira. We both know that. Let's stop pretending we can fix something that's already ash."
She stared at me, trembling. "You can't mean that. After everything—"
"Exactly after everything," I said. "I'm tired."
For a long time, the only sound in the room was the hum of the refrigerator. Then she whispered, "Is there someone else?"
I almost laughed. If only you knew."No. Just me."
That answer seemed to hurt her more than any affair ever could.
The first days were slow, almost peaceful. We talked like two strangers dividing furniture: who keeps the TV, who keeps the bed, who keeps the memories. She cried; I didn't.
But beneath the calm surface, I was planning.Not revenge — not this time — something subtler.I wanted control.If she had broken me once, I'd make sure the rest of the world never could.
I dragged the divorce out deliberately. Papers misplaced, signatures delayed, lawyers swapped. Each delay drained her further. She wanted closure; I gave her confusion. I smiled through it all, polite, cooperative, unreadable.That smile unnerved her more than anger ever had.
At night, she'd ask, "Why are you doing this?"And I'd answer honestly, "Because I can."
The strange thing was how easy it became.The same instincts that once drove my paranoia now sharpened into awareness — of tone, of timing, of people. I could read hesitation, insecurity, desire. Every conversation felt like a chessboard, and I'd finally learned how to play.
Colleagues started noticing."Dhruve, you seem different," one woman said, half-smiling. "More… confident."I just shrugged. "Maybe I stopped caring."She laughed, thinking it was a joke.It wasn't.
Soon, I found myself testing limits. A compliment here, a long look there. The way eyes widened, the pulse quickened — small experiments in control. It wasn't about attraction; it was about cause and effect.Touch one string, watch the emotion ripple.
Flirting became a game of precision: a glance, a pause, a withdrawal at the perfect moment.They leaned in; I leaned away.They texted first; I replied hours later.And each time, the same pattern — confusion, longing, obsession.
It was fascinating.Cruel.Addictive.
Mira noticed the shift even before the papers were finalized."You've changed," she said one evening, watching me pack. "You used to feel everything. Now it's like you feel nothing at all."
I zipped the suitcase shut and looked at her."Maybe that's what surviving looks like."
She didn't argue. She just sat there, hugging herself, as if trying to keep her pieces together while I walked away with mine neatly arranged.
When I left the apartment for the last time, the city air felt different — sharper, cleaner.I wasn't the same man who'd once stumbled home at lunch and lost his world in a heartbeat.That man had died in the doorway.
What walked out now was something new.Calm. Controlled.Dangerous.
I didn't look back at the building.Instead, I pulled out my phone, opened a dating app I'd downloaded the night before, and typed a simple bio:
"I don't promise forever. Just honesty."
Within minutes, matches started rolling in. Faces. Smiles. Messages.Little doors opening into lives I could study, shape, and close whenever I wished.
For the first time in months, I smiled — not out of joy, but recognition.This was who I was now.A man who'd stopped trying to be loved… and started learning how to be wanted.