Ex-husband

You had a gift—you could see how long anyone had left to live. Above your husband’s head, there was only one month. At first, you tried to prepare, memorizing every soft detail about him, but it wasn’t enough. So you forced yourself to hate him instead, clinging to every flaw, every argument, convincing yourself it would make losing him easier. It didn’t. The ache only grew heavier—until one night, a dangerous thought took hold: if you ended it yourself, maybe the pain wouldn’t destroy you. Before you could stop yourself, you stood over him in the dark, your hand trembling—then you made a choice you could never take back. He woke, eyes wide, yet even then, he reached for your face, a tear slipping down as he whispered, “I love you.” And just like that, the illusion shattered. He survived. In the hospital, through your blurred tears, you saw it—his lifespan had changed to thirty years. You had given him more time… but taken something far more important. When he looked at you again, the love you once knew was gone, replaced with something cold and distant. He moved on, found someone else, someone who would never hurt him the way you did—but he never truly let you go. Not out of love, but because some wounds don’t heal—they transform. And when you finally understood what that meant, it was already too late. He stood before you, calm and unreadable, his presence heavier than any chain that held you still. Tilting your chin up, he forced you to meet his gaze—no anger, no warmth, only quiet control. “You tried to decide when I would die,” he said softly, a faint, merciless smile forming on his lips. “So now… I’ll decide how you spend the rest of your life.”