I remember her face, the way her eyes went wide when I told her it was over. It was a Tuesday, late afternoon. The light coming in through the kitchen window was flat, the kind that makes everything look a little grey. She was making tea. Earl Grey, always Earl Grey. I watched her hands, how steady they were. Then I said it. The words just came out. She asked why. Of course she asked why. What could I say? He was kind. He was good. He was everything my parents, my aunties, my uncles back home, expected me to find. He was kind every single day, every single day. He remembered my favorite coffee order. He held doors. He listened when I spoke about work, even when I knew he didn't quite understand the details. He remembered my mother's birthday. He was… perfect. And I felt nothing. Nothing at all. That's the part that sticks in my throat. That's the part I can't say out loud. I looked at her, truly looked at her, and all I felt was a profound, quiet… relief. A lightness. Like a weight I hadn't even known I was carrying had finally been put down. It wasn't triumph. It wasn't joy. It was just… unburdening. She cried. Soft, quiet tears that ran down her cheeks. She asked if there was someone else. If I had met someone new. No. There wasn't. There isn't. I just didn't want him. Not anymore. Maybe not ever. That thought, that maybe I never truly wanted him, that’s a heavy one. My mother, when I told her, asked if I was mad. If I had lost my mind. This man, from a good family, stable job, good heart. What more could I want? She reminded me of my cousin, still unmarried, still waiting. The shame in her voice, I could feel it through the phone line, even across continents. The unspoken expectation. The duty. I haven't slept properly since. Not really. I lie awake, staring at the ceiling, and the relief is still there. It's a constant hum beneath everything else. It should be heartbreak. It should be regret. It should be second-guessing. My friends, the ones I've told, they talk about it, about how hard it must be. They offer comfort. And I just nod. But inside, I am quiet. Still. The silence is deafening. I expected to crumble. To miss her touch. To miss her voice. To miss the comfort of routine. But there is only this profound, unsettling quiet. This... freedom. And it feels wrong. So profoundly wrong. I keep replaying the conversation. Her face. Her quiet tears. And my own emptiness. My own lack of anything but the overwhelming sensation of a heavy chain falling away. And I wonder, what kind of person does that make me? What kind of monster? This is not how it should be. Not how it should be at all.