“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”

Just… clear.

I drove home through the cold rain, gripping the wheel.

By the time I parked, I wasn’t crying anymore.

I was thinking.

Planning.

Midnight found me standing in the living room, surrounded by boxes.

His words replayed in my head.

“We’re not married. You don’t own me.”

I sealed the first box.

“You’re right,” I whispered.