Any walked out of the office building, walking as in a dream -or nightmare that she could never come out of. The heaviness of Elliot's betrayal pushed into her chest so that every breath felt laborious, as though she was drowning above water. She gripped the tiffin box tight, her knuckles turned white as though it were the last anchor to a reality she could comprehend.
Her phone buzzed again in her bag, this time with the name of Elliot on it flashing on the screen persistently. She ignored it and clutched at her handbag as if that was all that held her together. How many times had she answered his calls without a second thought? How many times had she believed his lies without question?
The doorman smiled at her as she entered the apartment building, oblivious to the storm raging inside of her. She managed a nod, the polite response drilled into her since childhood, but it felt like an act a mask she couldn't wait to rip off.
The elevator ride seemed like forever. Every second was heavy, filled with the replay of that conversation.
"Two years."
Two years of lies. Two years in which she had believed that she was creating a life with Elliot while he was creating something else with her. With Natalie.
She trembled with her hands to unlock the door of their apartment. It was dark inside, the kind of silence that did not offer any peace, but amplified the despair she felt. Kicking off her shoes, dropping the tiffin on the counter, the sound boisterous in the empty space was louder than she expected.
Her eyes landed on the framed photos along the hallway: their wedding day, smiling and holding hands. A candid from their honeymoon, laughing on a beach she now couldn't remember. Anya stared at them, her breath catching in her throat. Each image was a lie, a cruel reminder of what she thought they had.
She wanted to scream. To rip the photos from the walls and smash them into pieces. But her body refused to move.
But she flopped on to the couch and buried her face in her hands. The tears washed up over her, hot, with no respite, stinging in the cheeks as they streamed. She had cried over so many things before: when the parents died, when life did not seem to be all right anymore. But that felt different.
This wasn't just grief. It was betrayal. It was anger. And it was the hollow, gnawing ache of realizing that the man she had built her life around didn't love her not in the way she had hoped, not in the way she deserved.
Her phone buzzing through her sobs. Elliot's name again. She stared at it, her vision blurred, her chest tightening with every vibration.
Finally, she answered, her voice trembling. "What do you want?" "Anya,"
Elliot's voice was smooth, practiced, as if he were trying to diffuse a business dispute. "We need to talk."
Anya laughed, a cold, bitter sound. "Talk? You think we need to talk? I think we said enough, Elliot."
"You're upset," he continued, his voice maddeningly calm. "And I understand that. But this isn't something you should react to on impulse.
"Impulsively?" she cracked, her voice splitting with the pain.
"Two years. I just discovered that you've been lying to me. Two years! I'm sitting here in that apartment with you, building a life, and for two years you're messing around with this woman. You say impulsive now? Ha! That's your word? Fine!
This isn't just about us," he said, his voice lowering as though he were talking to a child. "There are bigger things at play, Anya. Our marriage..."
"Stop," she cut him off, her voice shaking. "Don't you dare talk about our marriage like it means something to you. You didn't marry me because you loved me. You married me because it was convenient. Because I was convenient."
He sighed, the sound infuriatingly patient. "You're emotional right now. You're not thinking clearly. Let's talk this through calmly.
"Don't you dare tell me how to feel," she said, her grip tightening on the phone. "You don't get to decide what's rational or emotional. Not after what you've done."
"Anya—"
"I'm done, Elliot," she said, cutting him off. "I'm done playing the fool. I'm done being your convenient wife. And I'm done pretending that any of this..." she gestured around the apartment, even though he couldn't see her, "...was ever real."
She hung up, her hands shuddering as she replaced the phone into its cradle. A heart was banging in her chest, an adrenaline rush as she sat with her phone's blank face staring out at her, the silence seeming to press all around her, heavy and suffocating.
Then, taking a deep breath, she stood. She walked to the bedroom, her steps purposeful. If this was the end, she wasn't going to stay here-surrounded by the ghosts of a life that was never hers to begin with.
She rummaged in the closet, pulling out a suitcase. Her movements brisk as she began packing clothes and essentials and a few small trinkets. Packing her things quickly, she ignored the ache in her chest. Memories attached to everything touched.
She stood over the bedside table, her hand hovering over it. There was the little photo frame her parents on their anniversary, beaming. She picked up the frame, her fingers gliding over the glass of the frame.
"Sorry," she said, and her voice broke. She said, "I let you down. I should have seen through him. I should have been stronger."
With tears blurring her eyes, she inserted the picture back into her purse.
By the time she closed up the suitcase and rolled it to the door, determination had set in. She did not know where she was going; however, she knew she could not remain there. Not here. Not with him.
The city greeted her with its usual hum of life cars honking, people rushing by, lights flickering in the distance. Anya stood there for a moment, the suitcase handle gripped tightly in her hand.
For the first time in years, she felt untethered. It was terrifying, yes. But somewhere, deep beneath the fear and heartbreak, was a flicker of something else.
Freedom.
She didn't know what was going to happen next. But for the first time in such a long time, the path was hers to choose.