Linda sat at the edge of the sofa, her figure half-illuminated by the glow bleeding from the kitchen. The soft hum of the washing machine thrummed in the background, the only sound accompanying the stillness. The night felt endless, eerily identical to every other night over the past two years.

David wouldn’t be home in a hurry. He never was anymore.

Soon, the door would open. He’d enter without a word, drop his briefcase, and head for the shower. Dinner would follow—silent, awkward, transactional. If she spoke, he’d raise his hand dismissively, muttering, “I’m tired. Let’s talk later.” Later never came.

Once, their home had been filled with laughter and late-night conversations about movies and dreams. He used to touch the small of her back as they strolled, whisper compliments about her dresses, and smile like she was everything. Now, silence reigned—even when the radio played.

A click. The door unlocked. Footsteps followed.

“You’re sitting in the dark again?” His voice was flat. Emotionless.

“I’m thinking,” she replied.

He didn’t ask what about.

Shoes came off. Coat dropped. He disappeared into the bedroom. The sound of running water followed.

She didn’t need to see him to know he was rolling his eyes.

He hadn’t asked about her day in months. The same man who once admired her independence now seemed irritated by her very presence—especially when she didn’t fit the mold of a “successful man’s wife.”

She got up, walked to the kitchen, and flicked the light on. Dinner sat in the fridge. She didn’t bother heating it.

David entered, buttoning his shirt. “Dinner at my parents’ tomorrow,” he said. “Mom asked if you could not wear…” He gestured vaguely at her old cardigan. “You get how that looks, right?”

She looked up.

“How what looks?”

“As if I can’t afford to dress my own wife properly.”

The words landed. Sharp. Unkind.

For the first time in a long time, she wanted to respond—to say something fierce. But the words wouldn't come. Only a nod.

“Alright,” she said quietly.

David gave a satisfied nod, grabbed water from the fridge, and left the room.

Something shifted inside her. Something silent, but seismic.

The next morning, they left together.

David tapped away on his phone in the elevator. Linda watched her reflection in the mirror. The dress she wore had been buried in the back of her closet for months. Not because she couldn’t afford new clothes, but because nothing had felt worth dressing up for.

When they reached the car, he offered, “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

“I’ll take the metro,” she replied.

He looked up, surprised. “You hate the metro.”

“I feel like walking.”

He didn’t argue.

That evening at his parents’ house, everything was as it had always been—polished floors, heavy drapes, framed photos of David smiling through every stage of his life. She wasn’t in any of them.

“Linda,” his mother said with thinly veiled surprise, “you finally wore something decent.”

She said nothing.

Dinner was a shrine to David’s success—corporate promotions, client wins, future plans. Linda sat quietly, like background furniture.

“Still working at your little office job?” his sister asked over a glass of wine.

“Yes,” Linda said calmly.

“When will you join a real company? You’re married to a man like David—you shouldn’t be counting pennies.”

David didn’t defend her. Didn’t even look at her.

“I like where I work,” she replied.

His sister gave a dismissive shrug. “If you’re comfortable being a gray mouse, then sure.”

Silence.

And then—David. Smiling, barely looking at her.

“You’re nothing but empty space to me.”

The words echoed. The clink of cutlery. A paused breath. But no one flinched. No one reacted. Not even his mother, still slicing roast.

Because to them, she was empty space.

She set her fork down and stood.

“Everything alright, dear?” his mother asked, already distracted.

Linda looked at David.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“Home.”

“We haven’t finished dinner.”

“For an empty space,” she said softly, “dinner is over.”

She walked that night—through neon lights and passing cars, down nameless streets, until she found herself at a familiar brick building.

Her aunt’s apartment. The one place that had always been safe.

“Linda?” her aunt blinked, tying her robe tighter. “What happened?”

Linda didn’t answer. She just stood there.

“Come in,” her aunt said gently.

She nodded.

The scent of lavender, worn blankets, and old wood filled the air. Everything was exactly as she remembered—unchanged. Unlike her.

The next morning, she slipped out while her aunt was distracted. No goodbye. Her aunt would understand.

Back at the apartment she once shared with David, she moved like a shadow. Nothing had changed—his coat on the rack, his cologne in the air. But something was gone.

She pulled out her suitcase and began packing. Quietly. Precisely. Not everything. Just enough. Just herself.

The lock clicked.

“Are you here?” David called.

He appeared in the doorway, surprised. “Are you… coming back?”

“No,” she said, zipping her suitcase.

“What are you doing? Is this because of yesterday?”

She didn’t answer.

“Don’t be childish, Linda.”

She lifted her suitcase, walked past him.

“You’re serious? Over one evening?”

She paused at the door.

“It wasn’t the first time,” she said, looking at him for the last time.

And then she was gone.

Six months later.

The days had been hard. Starting over was never graceful. Her new apartment was bare, the silence too loud, the nights colder than she remembered. But she moved forward—step by step.

Then, one morning at work:

“Elena, who’s my 10:30?”

“A candidate for the lead specialist role. Resume's on your desk.”

Linda didn’t glance at the file. Meetings were routine now.

The door opened.

And there he was.

David.

He froze.

So did she—for a beat. Then, calm.

“Please, have a seat.”

He sat. Nervously. Attempting control.

“I didn’t know… you worked here.”

“I don’t work here,” she said. “I own it. I’m managing partner.”

His lips parted. No words.

She gently closed his resume.

“Thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch.”

Later, as he stood at the gate, hands in pockets, she approached.

“You knew it would change, someday,” she said.

He smiled faintly. “Did you think I came here willingly?”

“I didn’t.”

“I didn’t know it was your company.”

“Now you do.”

“Will you hire me?”

She looked him dead in the eye.

“If I had been the one sitting across from you six months ago—would you have hired me?”

He didn’t answer.

She didn’t wait.

That night, Linda sat by the window of her apartment, the wind weaving through open panes. On her desk was a contract—her next project. Her phone buzzed.

A message from Mikhail:
“Dinner at 8. No excuses.”

She smiled.

Somewhere behind her was the Linda who waited to be seen. The one who swallowed pain and wore cardigans to avoid judgment.

That Linda was gone.

And this one?

She never waited to be chosen again.