Expired Love, After the Rain

He patted my shoulder lightly, with the kind of condescending comfort a senior partner might offer a junior employee after a minor mistake.

"Get some sleep, Claire. It's hard to get a taxi this late in this area, and I don't feel right leaving Emily to find her own way home. I'll be back after I drop her off."

"Okay."

I didn't even glance back at his entitled face. I pushed the door open, and the freezing midnight rain of London instantly soaked through my silk shawl. I didn't wait for him to start the engine; I walked straight into the lobby.

Back in the apartment, I didn't turn on the lights. Passing the spare room — the one that was supposed to belong to our "future" — I pushed the door open. This was the Mayfair flat we had picked out together because he said it was close to Hyde Park, perfect for taking our future children on weekend walks.

Now it was cluttered with Ryan's old golf clubs and neatly labelled folders of industry clippings Emily had organised for him.

I pulled out a dusty, deformed cardboard box — eight years of our lives. There was a selfie outside the British Museum, a paper rose he'd folded for me in Covent Garden, and faded theatre stubs. On the back of a photo, the promise "I'll carry you for a lifetime" looked absurd in the faint glow of my phone, like a policy that had expired years ago.

The sound of an engine dying out drifted up from the street. Ryan entered the flat with the relaxed air of a man who had successfully completed a "gentlemanly duty".

"Why are you hiding in here? Nostalgia isn't your style, Claire." He leaned against the doorframe, unbuttoning his bespoke suit.

I remained crouched on the cold floor, my fingertips tracing the edge of a Polaroid. "Is she home?"

"Yes, the roads near her place are under construction; it was a bit of a trek." He explained with practised patience.

"I see."

I stood up, the pins-and-needles sensation in my legs keeping me dangerously sharp. I didn't look at him; instead, I began stuffing the fragments of our eight years back into the box.

"Go to bed. I have to meet new partners tomorrow." He reached out to pull me toward him.

I leaned back, precisely avoiding his touch.

"Ryan."

"Yes?" He arched an eyebrow, his hand hovering awkwardly.

"We're done."

The smile froze on his face for a second, followed by a frustrated scoff. He loosened his tie, that familiar weariness of a man dealing with a temperamental child returning to his voice: "Is this still about the flowers? Claire, this kind of petty drama is beneath you."

"Enough. I'll have my secretary send a larger bouquet to your studio tomorrow. Stop making a scene. I don't have time for a silent-treatment routine."

He turned toward the bathroom, certain that I would choose silence and reconciliation at the breakfast table the next morning, just as I had for eight years.

"October 28th," I said to his back, my voice quiet but steady in the dead hallway. "That's my wedding day. And the position of the groom has already been filled."