Silent Exit and My Better Boss

On the night of our eighth anniversary, I made a full dinner and waited.

By the time Andrew finally walked through the door, the whipped cream on the cake had already collapsed into a sad, melted puddle.

His first words weren’t an apology. "Flora’s voice recorder is broken. I promised I'd fix it for her tonight, so go ahead and sleep without me." I froze.

Flora was the one that got away—his college crush, the girl he’d spent years pining after before she rejected him. Last month, she was transferred back to his firm.

Since then, Andrew’s world had become a series of "conveniences" for her.

He’d "conveniently" drive her home, "conveniently" stay late to help her work, and "conveniently" give up our reservation at a Michelinstarred restaurant so she could have a welcomeback dinner.

He had even "conveniently" taken the matching couple's watches I had painstakingly picked out to the office, letting Flora try hers on first.

When I confronted him, he shrugged. "She just casually mentioned they looked nice.

Don't be so petty, Natalie." I looked at the table of cold food and asked softly, "Andrew, do you even know what day it is?" He frowned, his expression tightening. "Don't start, Natalie.

Flora has a big presentation tomorrow. She needs this. It's too important to delay." It turned out eight years of history couldn't compete with her needing a favor.

Since I was never his first choice anyway, I realized I didn't need to waste any more time waiting for him to choose me. … Andrew walked straight past me and into the study.

I stood by the dining table, watching him drape his coat over the back of a chair. In the kitchen, the slowsimmered beef stew was still keeping warm on low.

During our third year together, when his sensitive stomach started acting up, I spent hours learning how to make homemade broths and stews.

The first time I tried, I burned my hands so badly they blistered. Back then, Andrew had held my hands in his, looking so heartbroken he couldn't even speak.

Now, he didn't even have the time to glance toward the kitchen. The study door wasn't fully closed.

Flora's voice drifted out, soft and breathless over the speakerphone. "Andrew, is this too much trouble? Honestly, it’s fine if I mess up the presentation tomorrow.

I don’t want to impose." Andrew’s voice instantly softened. "Don't talk like that. You just got back to the city.

I'm not going to let you fail." So, it wasn't that he lacked tenderness. He had just redirected it. I looked back at the cake in the center of the table.

The frosting had melted, and the chocolate plaque reading "Happy 8th Anniversary" had slid to the side, looking like a punchline to a joke I hadn't wanted to hear. My phone buzzed.

It was a notification from Instagram. Flora had just posted. The photo showed the corner of Andrew’s desk, with her broken recorder.

Her caption read: "Even broken, old things can be patiently put back together if someone cares enough. So lucky." I stared at those words for a long time.

The broken, discarded thing left out in the cold wasn't the recorder. It was me. Half an hour later, Andrew came out of the study to pour a glass of water.

Seeing me still sitting at the table, he knit his brows. "Why aren't you in bed?" "We need to talk." "Not right now." "Just five minutes." He looked at me, his voice tight with suppressed irritation. "Natalie, do you really have to pick a fight tonight?

Flora’s presentation tomorrow determines whether she gets her permanent transfer." I let out a quiet, humorless laugh. "And what about today?" "What?" "Today.

What does today determine? Can you really not remember?" Andrew went silent for a few seconds, as if searching through some dusty corner of his mind for the answer.

When he finally found it, his expression relaxed slightly, though there wasn't a trace of guilt on his face. "It's just our eighth anniversary, Natalie.

I'll make it up to you another night." "Just." Hearing that word, the last of my energy to argue evaporated.

There was a time when he would book a restaurant a month in advance, mark the date in his calendar with three separate reminders, and text me at midnight: "No matter how many years go by, I only want to spend them with you." Now, eight years had been reduced to a "just." His phone rang again.

It was Flora. Without a moment’s hesitation, he answered it and headed back toward the study. "Yeah, I'm here.

Don't worry, take a breath." The door clicked shut, leaving the living room completely silent. I quietly scraped the cold food and the melted cake into the trash can.

Just as I let the lid drop, the study door opened again. Andrew stood in the doorway, watching me. "What are you doing?" "Throwing it out.

No one's eating it anyway." His forehead creased deeply. "Natalie, that's enough." I didn't answer. Flora’s voice drifted through his speakerphone again. "Andrew?

Did you and Natalie get into an argument because of me? Maybe you should go talk to her. I'll be fine." Andrew kept his eyes on me, lowering his voice. "Don't worry about it.

She just needs a minute to cool off." I stared at him. "She just needs a minute." In his mind, even my grief had an expiration date. I turned and walked into the bedroom.

Behind me, I could hear him speaking to the phone again. "Go ahead.

Let's play that audio segment back one more time." A thin sliver of light leaked through the crack under the bedroom door, like a delayed echo. But I didn't want to listen anymore.