Alexander chose Saturday.
That was how I knew he believed this could still be fixed.
Saturday carried a particular illusion, unrushed hours, softened edges, the idea that intention could substitute for decision. He had always trusted timing more than truth.
I woke to the scent of tea before I heard him move.
By the time I entered the kitchen, the table was set with care that felt almost ceremonial. Flowers I liked but hadn't asked for. Breakfast arranged the way it used to be, when repetition passed for closeness and memory was mistaken for presence.
"Good morning," he said, smiling like a man rehearsing optimism.
"Good morning," I replied.
"I thought we could spend today together," he said lightly. "No work. No interruptions."
I poured my tea. "You should have asked."
He blinked. "I assumed…"
"Yes," I said gently. "You did."
That assumption hung between us, small but unmistakable.
We sat. We ate. He spoke about neutral things; the weather, a minor renovation, a board retreat he claimed he was reconsidering. He avoided the words that mattered. Elena. Divorce. Thirty.
Avoidance had always been his preferred repair tool.
After breakfast, he suggested a walk.
"We could go to the park," he said. "We used to."
"We used to," I agreed.
The past tense unsettled him.
Outside, the city moved without us; efficient, indifferent. Alexander walked close enough to suggest intimacy without touching, as if proximity alone might reset something he hadn't dismantled.
"How's your project going?" he asked.
"On schedule."
"Enjoying it?"
"Yes."
He waited for more.
I gave none.
We reached the water and sat on a bench. He leaned back, exhaling, posture performing ease.
"I've been thinking," he said.
I didn't respond.
"I know I made mistakes," he continued. "I wasn't present. I took things for granted."
I turned to look at him. His expression was sincere; open, almost vulnerable. A month ago, it would have undone me.
"That's true," I said.
Relief flickered across his face. "I want to do better."
"How?" I asked.
The word stopped him.
"I'm here," he said after a moment. "I'm trying."
"That's effort," I replied. "Not change."
His brow furrowed. "What's the difference?"
I considered him, then answered carefully. "Effort is what you give when something threatens your comfort. Change is what you choose when it threatens someone else's."
"That's not fair," he said.
"No," I agreed. "It's accurate."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Tell me what you need."
Once, that question would have felt like a door opening.
Now it felt like an audit.
"I don't want to be consulted like a problem," I said. "I want to be chosen without prompting."
"I am choosing you," he said quickly.
I shook my head. "You're choosing proximity. There's a difference."
Frustration sharpened his voice. "What more do you want from me?"
The question carried weight, the sense that he was nearing a limit.
I stood.
"I want you to stop repairing and start deciding," I said.
He rose a second later. "I am deciding. I'm here."
"Yes," I said. "And you're still available everywhere else."
He stiffened. "That's not true."
"Elena still has access to you," I said calmly. "Your plans still assume my presence without my consent. Your language still treats this as temporary turbulence."
He looked at me like I'd moved the ground beneath his feet. "Because it is."
"No," I said. "It's an ending in progress."
He laughed once; sharp, disbelieving. "You're talking like this is inevitable."
"I'm talking like I'm prepared."
Silence settled between us, heavy with what he didn't want to hear.
"This feels like punishment," he said at last.
The word hurt, not because it was cruel, but because it was revealing.
"This isn't punishment," I said softly. "It's consequence."
He rubbed a hand through his hair. "You're asking me to dismantle my life overnight."
"I'm asking you to decide whether it's mine," I replied. "Or simply convenient."
We walked back without speaking.
At the house, he reached for me instinctively, as if touch could anchor what words could not. His hand closed around my wrist, gentle but urgent.
"Don't shut me out," he said.
I didn't pull away.
But I didn't lean in either.
"I didn't shut you out," I said. "I stepped back."
"Why does it feel the same?"
"Because you're not used to meeting me halfway."
That night, he tried again.
Dinner reservations. A familiar restaurant. Nostalgia curated with precision. He apologized without specifics. Promised without commitments. Spoke of improvement as if it were incremental rather than decisive.
I listened.
When he finished, he reached across the table, palm up.
I looked at his hand for a long moment before placing mine in it. The contact was warm. Familiar.
Empty.
"This isn't working," I said quietly.
His posture tightened. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I continued, withdrawing my hand, "that you're trying to restore something without examining why it collapsed."
"I'm here," he said again. "I'm choosing you."
"You're choosing not to lose," I said. "That's not the same thing."
His voice dropped. "What would be enough?"
I met his eyes. "Clarity. Even if it costs you."
He said nothing.
That was the failure.
Not anger.
Not refusal.
Hesitation.
Back at the house, he lingered at the bedroom door as if waiting for an invitation I no longer offered by default.
"Good night, Seraphina," he said.
"Good night."
I slept.
He did not.
And somewhere between his effort and my acceptance, the truth settled into place with quiet certainty:
Repairs fail when they are designed to preserve comfort instead of confront truth.
Alexander wanted restoration.
I wanted resolution.
Those desires could not coexist.
Not anymore.