That night, sleep brought flashes of memory—their last dinner together, her quiet laughter that died mid-sentence when he mocked her in front of guests. “Don’t sulk,” he’d said. “People like you better when you smile.” He remembered her smile that night—thin, forced, and already breaking.
He saw her again, at the airport months earlier, suitcase in hand, threatening to visit her sister. He’d called her dramatic, childish, unstable. “You’ll come crawling back. You’ll never find someone as good as me,” he’d told her. She had too, every time, after every fight. Until now.