When Derek first suggested it, I actually laughed.
“A thirty-day reset? Living apart to fall back in love?”
It sounded like a plot twist from a romantic comedy. But he wasn’t joking—he was sincere, passionate even.
“It’s not a breakup,” he said. “Just space. Time to miss each other. To remember why we chose this.”
We weren’t perfect, but I didn’t think we were broken. Still, something in his voice made me pause. So I agreed.
I rented a tiny place just a few blocks away, packed a week’s worth of clothes, and left with a kiss on the cheek and an uneasy heart. He waved goodbye from the porch like I was heading on a weekend getaway, not stepping away from a five-year marriage.
The first few days were eerily quiet. No texts, no calls asking about dinner. I told myself he was respecting the “space” we agreed on. We still checked in occasionally, though it felt more like polite conversation than real connection. Still, he always ended our calls with something hopeful:
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