I’m writing this from the couch she picked out, in the house she made a home, while her favorite playlist loops in the background. The one I used to mock for being “too sad.” Now I get it. Lena and I were married for six years. I was the guy who bragged about “hustle culture”—working 70-hour weeks, chasing bonuses, buying her expensive gifts to make up for missed birthdays and anniversaries. She’d ask me to put my phone down during dinner, to watch a movie without checking emails, to talk. I’d kiss her forehead and say, “Soon. Just gotta secure our future.” Our future. What a joke. The cracks started small. She stopped leaving Post-its on my laptop. Stopped laughing at my dumb jokes. I told myself she was just tired. Then, last January, she booked a solo trip to Colorado. “Need space to think,” she said. I waved her off, relieved I could grind guilt-free for a week. She came back quieter. Distant. I didn’t ask why. The breaking point was a Thursday. I came home late to find her sitting at the kitchen table, suitcase by the door. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, voice steady. “You’re married to your job. I’m just… furniture.” I laughed. Actual laughter. “Don’t be dramatic. We’ll take a vacation next month!” She slid her ring across the table. “You haven’t looked at me in a year. I’ve been screaming silently, and you’re deaf.” The door clicked shut. I ordered pizza, assuming she’d cool off at her sister’s. But her sister texted me at 3 a.m.: “She’s not coming back. Let her go.” Two days later, I found a box in her closet. Inside: concert tickets from our first date, a dried rose from our wedding, and a journal. Page after page of her handwriting: “Told him I’m depressed. He said, ‘Just go to the gym.’” “Cried in the shower so he wouldn’t hear.” “Why am I not enough?” I threw up. I begged for counseling. She agreed, but her eyes were hollow. The therapist asked me to describe her hobbies, her fears, her best friend’s name. I failed all three questions. Lena just nodded, like she’d expected it. We signed divorce papers last month. She took the dog. I’m writing this because we’re sold this lie that love is about grand gestures and bank accounts. It’s not. It’s about noticing. Did she switch shampoos? Does she take her coffee black now? Why hasn’t she worn her yellow sweater in months? I didn’t see her slipping away because I wasn’t looking. Don’t be me. TL;DR: Traded date nights for deadlines. Now I’m divorced and finally understand what “forever” costs. — The fool who confused providing with loving (Share if this hits home. And if you’re reading this while someone’s waiting for you… put the phone down. Before it’s too late.)