I’ve always believed destruction should be done beautifully.

Slowly.

Precisely.

Like painting a bruise on someone’s life until the color never fades.

Edward always thought I was the soft one.

The harmless one.

The woman who held his wife while she cried,

who held his son when he scraped his knee,

who held herself together when Anita died.

He never realized what kind of person you become

after losing the only woman you ever loved

to a man who didn’t deserve even her shadow.

Tonight, I make sure he understands.

My laptop glows in front of me, a half-finished spreadsheet open beside a folder labeled with his name.

Edward.

So...