"I want a divorce."
Katelyn set the papers on the coffee table and kept her hands flat on the table like she was bracing herself against a storm.
Felix watched the papers slide to a stop. He didn't move. The sunlight across his face made the lines in his jaw sharper.
"Why?" he asked finally. He sounded small. He sounded cruel in a way that used to be careful.
"Because there's no meaning left," she said.
Felix blinked. Then he laughed, a short, almost automatic sound. "Meaning? Katelyn, you write fiction for a living. You complain about meaning."
"I write stories," she said. "We were supposed to build a life." She pushed the stack of documents closer to him. "This is the end."
Felix rubbed his forehead. "You're serious."
"Yes."
"You can't be serious."
"I am."
He stood up too fast. The armchair scraped; his knee hit the table.
"Talk to me. Tell me what happened." He reached for her hand. His fingers hovered and then pulled back.
"There's nothing to negotiate," she said. "Not anymore."
He looked at the papers like they might rearrange themselves. "You don't just hand me divorce papers," he said. "You don't—"
"I do," she interrupted. "I did."
They both held still. The apartment listened. The shelves held their old things in neat rows. The plant on the window had a dried leaf that Felix used to joke about. No one joked now.
Felix walked to the kitchen
