11
Oliver burned the house down.
He locked himself inside and refused to leave.
In the middle of the night, his friend called me, panicked, begging me to come and talk some sense into him.
I couldn’t risk having his death on my conscience, so I went.
By the time I arrived, the firefighters had already dragged him out. He was covered in soot, clutching a broken flower pot filled with dirt.
“Anna?” he mumbled, his voice hoarse. “You’re here. Our home… it’s gone.”
“But I saved your plants. Look… I saved them for you.”
He staggered toward me, reeking of alcohol, and the pot slipped from his hands, shattering on the ground.
Completely disoriented, Oliver dropped to his knees, sobbing uncontrollably into the pile of dirt.
“I just wanted to heat up the food,” he cried. “Your last meal… I’ve kept it in the fridge this whole time. Please, Anna, don’t divorce me. I’m begging you.”
He cried like a child, openly and without restraint.
The man in front of me was a far cry from the confident, self–assured person I had once chased after. His face, now etched with the lines of time and regret, was nothing like the man I had fallen for.
There was no love left in my heart for him. Only exhaustion.
“Oliver,” I said coldly, “just sign the divorce papers. I don’t even want the house or the money. Take it all. I don’t care.”
Panic flashed across his face. He grabbed the hem of my dress, his voice trembling.
“I’ll tear up the contract–it’s not legally binding. We can change everything. Just don’t leave me.”
I pried his fingers off my dress.
“Contracts can change, Oliver. So can feelings. Stop making this harder than it has to be.”
He collapsed onto the ash–covered floor, surrounded by the charred remains of the home we had once built together.
There was nothing left. Not of the house. Not of us.
