“We’re not married, you don’t own me,” he said at the bar when I asked why he gave his number to the waitress. I nodded and moved out while he was at a club. He came home to half-empty rooms and a note saying “You’re right. I don’t”

“You’re right,” I said.

He smirked.

He thought he had won.

He always mistook calm for surrender.

I picked up my purse, said goodbye to his friends, and walked out.
He didn’t follow.

Didn’t call.

Didn’t even notice I was gone.

That was when something inside me went quiet.

Not broken.

Not angry.