I thought it would end there, but something flashed in Max’s eyes: a sharp, almost disappointed glint. He nodded, but he didn’t offer a hand, didn’t offer comfort, didn’t reiterate his regret. He simply remained silent.

Over the next few days, the silence deepened, growing colder. Max barely spoke. He paced the house as if doing homework, avoiding my gaze and responding with terse, one-word replies. At first, I tried to rationalize it: grief affects people differently, I told myself. I tried to be patient, even kind.

But the more time passed, the more it became clear:
the distance Max was covering didn’t feel like pain.
He felt like he was calculating.

Then she suddenly asked for a divorce.

He didn’t ask to speak. He didn’t try to explain anything. He simply placed the papers on the kitchen table, as if sorting mail. I stared at the pages, confused, numb, and ashamed, because deep down I still hoped it was a mistake.

“What is this?” I asked, even though the answer was already visible to the naked eye.

“That’s better,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “We’re no longer… compatible.”