He approached me. “Alice, please. What I feel for you is real…”

I looked at it and imagined my sister driving in the rain, trying to get to my wedding before it was too late.

I retrieved the suitcase I had packed before his return.

His mother started to cry. My mother whispered my name. Ryan reached out towards my arm, then stopped.

“Please don’t leave like this,” he begged.

I turned around, not out of uncertainty, but because some endings deserve eye contact.

“You broke my sister’s heart. Then you stayed by my side while I buried her and you made me believe that she was the problem.”

He lowered his eyes.

That was all the answer I needed.

I left.

It’s been three weeks now. I’m living in a small rented apartment, with secondhand dishes and a mattress that creaks every time I turn over. I’ve already started divorce proceedings. Some mornings, I still wake up trying to recapture a life that no longer exists, before remembering why I left.

And I also remember my sister.

The way she asked, “Have you eaten?” as if it were the only love language she felt capable of using.