When Emma said she needed space, the words were soft, almost harmless — but something inside me clenched instantly. I thought she meant a breather, a quick reset, a moment to clear her head. I assumed it was normal. Temporary. Fixable.
I never imagined that one sentence would push me into one of the most defining chapters of my life.
In the weeks before her request, small shifts had crept in. Emma wasn’t cold — just distant. Her smiles felt practiced. Her voice lost its warmth. Her eyes drifted somewhere I couldn’t follow. She was right beside me, yet somehow already drifting away.
I convinced myself she was stressed. Overworked. Overwhelmed. She had always carried her struggles quietly, never wanting to weigh anyone down.
So I let things slide — the shorter replies, the tired expressions, the growing silence. I kept telling myself it would pass. But inside, something was sinking. Something knew.
Then came that night in April.
We were sitting side by side on the couch, TV flickering, both pretending to watch. Emma twisted the bracelet on her wrist — a habit she had when she was holding something heavy.
And then she finally said it:
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