“It’s not what you think,” he said each time. “We’ve grown apart. I need space to figure things out.”
She gave him space, the way you hand someone an umbrella in case it rains, hoping they’ll still choose to walk beside you.
And then the invitation arrived—hand-delivered by courier because things like this should feel special. Claire had signed her name on the little screen before she looked down at the envelope.
Mr. Daniel Morris & Ms. Isabelle Hart
request the honor of your presence…
She read it three times, then once more, because surely there was a sentence somewhere that explained the misunderstanding. She placed it on the kitchen counter next to the basil plant and waited for the floor to announce it was only a stage prop.
