I ended things with Mark last night. Or rather, he ended things, because I couldn’t bring myself to say the words. He’d been expecting it, I think. He’s always been good at reading me, even when I was trying to be opaque. We sat on the couch in silence for a long time after I told him I needed to talk, the only sound the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen. I could feel his eyes on me, steady and kind, and I just wanted to disappear. He asked me what was wrong, the way he always does, with that gentle patience that used to soothe me and now just… grates. I told him I wasn’t happy. He asked if I loved him. I couldn’t lie, not to him. He deserved more than that. I shook my head, my throat tight. He nodded, slowly, and I watched his shoulders slump just a little. That’s when he said it, that maybe it was time to let go. He said he understood, that he only wanted me to be happy, even if it wasn't with him. He just… accepted it. And that was the hardest part. It wasn't a fight. There were no raised voices, no tears from me, only a quiet, almost surgical removal of a life we’d built together. He asked if I needed help packing my things, and I said no. I just wanted to get out of there. I packed a single duffel bag with a change of clothes, my toothbrush, and my copy of "Meditations." His eyes followed me as I moved through the apartment, and I kept my back to him, focused on the task, on the solid feel of the zipper pulling shut. I walked out the door and into the cool night air, the streetlights casting long shadows. My car felt empty as I drove away. I expected a pang, a tearing feeling, the hollow ache of heartbreak I’ve read about, seen in movies, heard in songs. The kind that makes you pull over and just *weep*. But there was nothing. Only relief. A vast, quiet, consuming relief that made my hands clench on the steering wheel. And that’s what’s really eating at me. I feel like a monster. He was such a good man. Kind. Thoughtful. He remembered my favorite coffee order, he’d leave little notes for me when I had early shifts, he’d just *listen* when I ranted about work or the ghosts that sometimes follow me home. He was everything you’re supposed to want in a partner. And I felt nothing when I walked away. No guilt, no sorrow, not even a flicker of regret. It’s been hours since I left, and I’m sitting in a cheap motel room, the kind with the stale cigarette smell and thin walls. The TV is off, the only light from my phone screen. I keep replaying the conversation, trying to conjure up some emotion, some semblance of human feeling. But it’s just… quiet. Like a void. And I wonder if this is it for me. If the person I was, the person capable of feeling deeply, got left behind somewhere in the desert, or maybe just eroded by years of being told to harden up. During my time in the service, you learn to compartmentalize, to put things away, to not let emotion get in the way of the mission. But this feels different. This isn’t putting a bad memory in a box. This feels like the box itself is gone, and so is whatever was inside it. I look at myself in the mirror above the sink and I don’t recognize the emptiness in my eyes. It’s not sadness. It’s just… blankness. He deserved someone who loved him back, truly, deeply. And I gave him a shell. That’s what I am. A damn shell. And the worst part is I don’t even know how to fix it, or if there’s anything left to fix. I don't feel anger at him, or the situation, or even myself, not really. Just this cold, unsettling peace. And that scares me more than anything. I’m free, but I feel like I just severed a limb and didn’t even flinch.