I was going to tell him. And only him. And I was going to let him figure out the rest. I went back into the bedroom. He was out of the shower by then, towel-drying his hair, smiling at me with the same face I had kissed for three years. I sat down on the edge of the bed. I handed him his phone. I said: "Open Caroline's thread." His expression didn't change at first. Then it did — in a small, terrible way, the way a face changes when a doctor walks into the room and closes the door behind them. He said my name. I said, "Don't. Just read it. I already did." He sat on the bed with the phone in his hand. He scrolled. He scrolled. He scrolled. And then he set the phone down and he said, in the smallest voice I had ever heard him use: "I was going to try." That's when I started packing.