I stared at those four words until the room seemed to tilt. Maybe next time. Something inside me went entirely quiet. It wasn’t the loud, jagged break of a heart; it was the silent, tectonic shift of a foundation. I didn’t cry. I didn’t scream. I simply opened my banking app and looked at four years of digital receipts—the price of a love I was still trying to buy.

As I stared at the total balance of my “generosity,” I noticed a notification for a new charge from the rental car agency—an extension I hadn’t authorized—and I realized the betrayal was far more expensive than I had ever imagined.

Act II: The Geography of Neglect

The first night they chose Hannah’s house over mine, I performed a familiar ritual of self-gaslighting. They’re tired from the flight, I whispered to the empty chairs. Hannah’s kids are small; they need the grandparents more than I do. I wrapped the roast in foil, blew out the candles, and went to bed, pretending the hollow feeling in my gut was just hunger.

The next morning, I reached out with a smiling emoji, a digital mask for my desperation. “Good morning. I can make brunch here whenever you’re ready. No rush.”