Too much cologne.
That’s how I knew.
Not the late nights. Not the vague explanations. Not even the way he had slowly stopped touching me like I was something familiar.
It was the cologne.
Sharp. Sweet. Careful. Intentional.
The kind you don’t wear for meetings.
The kind you wear when you expect someone to lean in close.
I stood in the kitchen that morning, watching the coffee drip into the pot like it had every other morning for the past eight years. Same machine. Same cups. Same routine.
But nothing about us felt the same anymore.
In my hand was a small bottle.
Plain. Forgettable.
The kind of thing you’d never look twice at sitting on a pharmacy shelf.
I turned it slowly between my fingers, feeling the weight of it—not just the liquid inside, but everything that had led me here.
Because this wasn’t sudden.
It wasn’t anger.
It was accumulation.
Weeks of distance turning into months. Conversations that became shorter. Silences that grew longer. The way he would step into another room to take calls… and stay there.
And then the message.
I hadn’t been looking for it. I never was.
But it lit up his phone while he was in the shower, buzzing once, twice… like it wanted to be seen.
And I saw it.
“I’ll be waiting for you tomorrow. Don’t forget the perfume I like.”
—Carolina
Carolina.
Even her name felt polished.
Carefully chosen.
Like she belonged in a life that no longer included me.
I didn’t cry.
That’s what surprised me the most.
I just… understood.
“And my coffee?” he called from behind me.
His voice was light. Normal. As if nothing had shifted between us.
I turned, already smiling.
“Of course.”
I poured it the way he liked it. Two sugars. A splash of milk.
I hesitated for a second.
Just a second.
Then I added something else.
Not enough to harm.
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