Diary Entry – March 22nd
Rain drizzled outside my window as I paced the kitchen, frustration simmering. “Clara,” I muttered, “how can we go on like this?”
She stirred the soup on the stove, shoulders rigid, not facing me. “What’s wrong now?” Her voice was flat, hollow.
“What’s wrong?” I mimicked, slamming a hand on the table. “You’re always drawn into your own world—your projects, your emails, your endless lists—while I’m left in the shadows.”
“Work’s been overwhelming,” she said, monotone. “You know that.”
“Work? Work, work! When was the last time you asked about my day? When did we actually spend time *together*?” I almost shouted, the words spilling out. “Two weeks ago we went to the cinema and you barely looked up from your phone!”
Clara turned slowly, her gaze heavy with exhaustion. “We did. Two weeks ago.”
“And you sat through the whole film glued to your screen!” I ran a hand through my hair, my temper fraying. “I’m leaving, Clara.”
Her spoon clattered into the pot. “On a whim? Like that?”
“Not today. Permanently.” I gestured at the kitchen. “From *all* of this.”
She set the spoon down, her stillness unnerving. “Is there someone else?” The words were casual, too calm.
I hesitated. “Yes. She… she *listens* to me. *Laughs* at me. *Appreciates* me.”
A silence fell. Then Clara smiled—soft, distant, like a breath after a storm. “Go ahead, then.”
Shock froze me. I expected tears, a fight, *anything* but her calm acceptance. “You’re not even going to argue?”
“Is there a point in arguing? We’ve been strangers for years.” She turned back to the soup, stirring absentmindedly. “You were right. I was too caught up in my own life to notice what we’d lost.”
I left without supper, the door slamming louder than I intended. In the hallway, I heard her phone buzz—then her whispering sobs. But I didn’t look back.
A week later, I sat in a quiet café across from Natasha, my former college friend, who’d heard the gossip from Clara. “She let you go without a fight?” she asked, frowning.
“Seems she’d already made peace with it,” I muttered. “We were never the same since the twins were born. She buried herself in work, I drowned in routine. What was left?”
Natasha shook her head. “But ten years, Thomas. That means something.”
“It meant something. But not *enough*.” I sipped cold coffee. “Clara’s got this new job, one that’s more creative. She’s even redecorating the flat. She’s *thriving* without me.”
“Isn’t it… painful?”
I looked out the window at the drizzle. “Not from this. From realizing I didn’t even try to fix it before. I waited for her to change, for someone to make a move. But in the end, I was just another complacent fool.”
That night, old mother-in-law Eleanor called, tearful. “She said you left on your own? Did she say nothing about Sarah?”
“Sarah?”
“She’s the one at the gallery, isn’t it? Clara always thought *you* were loyal to her.”
“Loyal? I was too busy *expecting* her to change for me. But she did. She gave up the fight. Wished me well.”
“Like a fool, just walking out?” Eleanor snapped. “Well, she’s better off without you!”
I hung up and stared at the ceiling. That night, I returned to Clara’s flat to retrieve a forgotten box of files. The place looked… brighter. Walls painted soft blue, shelves filled with art books, her old photos tucked away.
“Everything sorted?” she asked, as I stood in the doorway.
“More or less.” I glanced at the sparse shelves. “You’ve taken the place apart.”
“More like a full rebirth.” She smiled, the same weightless smile she’d worn the day I left. “Natasha’s here tomorrow for tea. She’s helping me plan the new office layout.”
“I heard the twins take after you—headstrong.”
She laughed, a sound I hadn’t heard in years. “Actually, they’re *my* mother’s.” A pause. “I’ll always care for them, but I care more for my own peace.”
I left again, feeling smaller somehow. A month passed. Two. Then in August, I ran into her at the library. She wore a skirt I didn’t recognize, hair curled, eyes alight.
“Going somewhere nice?” I asked.
“Spain. I’m starting a writing residency in Seville. The studio’s paid for the next six months.” She handed me a card—a postcard from Granada, of all places. “Thought of you. You told me once you’d always wanted to visit the Alhambra.”
“You could’ve kept the flat,” I said quietly. “There’s more space if you want it.”
She tilted her head. “I’ve got everything I need, Thomas. A mind ready to wander, and a life that *finally* feels like my own.”
I watched her vanish among the bookshelves, her heels clicking like a heartbeat. I never saw her again.
**Lesson:** Some doors are meant to close, not out of loss, but to make room for a life that fits. I stayed too long in the shadows of what once was, blind to the light of what could be. Clara taught me more in her silence than I ever learned in our ten years together.
