The Kiss of Death.

She kissed me like she always had—soft, lingering, like a promise. A promise that had long since been broken. And I let her. I let her lips press against mine for that one last moment before I stepped away, because despite everything, some part of me still wanted to believe.

The air between us hung heavy with unsaid things, with a past we had both burned down in different ways. I had built a life for her—paid the bills, put her through school, bought her the furniture she had pointed at in department stores, paid for the little things she swore would make her happy. And yet, she told me I had given her the bare minimum.

That was the moment something inside me collapsed. A hollow echo where my pride used to be.

I wanted to yell at her, to rage, to demand to know how she could look me in the eyes and say that after everything I had done. But what would be the point? She had already rewritten the story in her head. In her version, I was never enough. I was never going to be enough.

So I stood there, the taste of her betrayal still on my lips, my hands still aching to hold onto something that no longer existed.

She had an affair.

I had replayed the words over and over again, trying to find some hidden meaning that might make it hurt less. It never did. It never would. I pictured them together, her with someone else, someone who probably still had the energy to be charming, to be wanted. A man who hadn’t lost himself in the quiet monotony of making sure the woman he loved had everything she needed.

I wasn’t attractive anymore. I had let myself go, grown soft in all the ways she probably hated. I had lost the spark that once made her look at me the way she used to. I saw it, the way her eyes drifted over me without really seeing me. The way she hesitated before kissing me goodnight. I knew I was losing her, but I had convinced myself that if I just worked harder, just gave her more, she would stay.

I was wrong.

She had taken everything—my money, my time, my love. But worst of all, she had taken me. The man I used to be, the man who laughed easily, who felt desirable, who had something to offer beyond just security and predictability. I had molded myself into the shape of what she wanted, and in the end, I was nothing to her.

And still, she got to keep everything. The life I built for her, the home I made, the security I provided. I was the one forced to leave, to abandon what little was left of my happiness. And worst of all, I had to leave behind the two beings who had never betrayed me—the ones who had loved me unconditionally.

The dog, an Australian Shepherd puppy, full of energy and joy, who would wait by the door every day, excited just to see me walk through it. My girl, my constant companion, the only one who ever made the loneliness bearable. And the cat, the one who would curl up by my side at night as I stroked his belly, purring softly, a steady rhythm against my soul. They were mine too. They loved me. But she got to keep them. And I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

She lied to everyone. Spun the story so well that by the time the truth came out, no one believed me. I was the villain. The one at fault. The one they whispered about behind closed doors. Friends who I had known for years stopped talking to me, stopped inviting me out, as if infidelity had been my crime instead of hers. I was isolated. I was alone.

Nights became unbearable. I lay awake in the hollow shell of an apartment that wasn’t mine, staring at the ceiling, feeling the weight of absence pressing down on my chest like a hand squeezing the last breath out of me. The silence was a howling void, filled with the echoes of laughter that had once belonged to another life, a life that had been stolen from me. The walls felt foreign. The air felt stale. I was a stranger in my own existence.

I could feel my anger clawing its way to the surface, but beneath it, there was only grief. A deep, cavernous grief that swallowed everything in its path. I still loved her. That was the worst part. I still loved her, and I hated myself for it.

But love isn’t enough. It never is.

I turned away, my hands clenched into fists at my sides. I had spent so long building this life, convinced that if I provided for her, if I gave her everything she asked for, she would never leave. But she had. In every way that mattered, she already had.

I took one last look at the apartment—the walls that had held our laughter, the bed where I had once felt safe, the kitchen where we had cooked meals together. But it wasn’t a home anymore. It was just a monument to my failure, a hollow shrine to everything I had given and everything she had taken.

I had sacrificed myself piece by piece until there was nothing left, and she had the audacity to say it wasn’t enough.

I stood there for what felt like an eternity, letting the weight of it crush me. Letting the truth settle in. There was no saving it. There was no saving me.

I sat in the airport, staring at the departures board, my ticket clenched in my hand like a lifeline I wasn’t sure I wanted to grab. Thousands of miles away, a town I had fought to get out of waited for me, a forced rebirth at thirty-six. Around me, people bustled, reuniting with loved ones, hurrying to their gates, lives moving forward as mine remained suspended in limbo. The fluorescent lighting cast everything in an artificial glow, sterile and detached, a cruel metaphor for how I felt.

The seat beside me was empty, a space where she should have been. Once, I had imagined us traveling together, experiencing the world side by side. Now, the only thing accompanying me was the weight of what she had done, what she had taken from me. My hands trembled as I scrolled through my phone, past the photos I hadn’t yet deleted, her smiling face captured in moments that now felt like a joke at my expense.

I closed my eyes, trying to silence the thoughts that clawed at my mind. The image of her, in our bed, with someone else. The sound of her voice when she told me it had been a mistake, but not one she regretted. The realization that I had spent years building a life that had never been enough for her.

The overhead speaker crackled, announcing that my flight was boarding. I exhaled slowly, feeling the finality of the moment press down on my chest. I wasn’t just leaving behind a home—I was leaving behind the man I had been. And the worst part? I wasn’t sure who I was without her.

I sat motionless in the airport terminal, my body numb from exhaustion, my mind tangled in the wreckage of what had been my life. The minutes dragged on, stretching into something meaningless, measured only by the blinking red numbers on the departure screen. I was leaving behind everything I knew, not because I wanted to, but because staying meant suffocating. There was nothing left for me but ghosts, echoes of laughter in rooms now empty, shadows of promises that had never held weight.

I gripped my boarding pass tighter, feeling the sharp edge of the paper press into my palm. The ticket was a declaration—one that I wasn’t running away, I was being exiled. Every step forward felt like a confession of failure. Thirty-six years old and starting over from scratch, rebuilding a life from nothing but the jagged edges of heartbreak and regret. It wasn’t a fresh start; it was survival.

A woman across from me cradled a sleeping child in her arms, rocking back and forth as she whispered something soothing. I envied that child. The safety, the warmth, the unshaken trust in the arms that held him. I had once believed I had that. But trust, I had learned, was something that could be shattered with a single betrayal. She had promised me forever. Then, with one choice, she had rewritten forever into something temporary, disposable.

The boarding announcement sounded over the speakers, the dull, mechanical voice breaking through my thoughts. I stood, feeling the weight of finality settle in my bones. This was it. This was the moment I left behind everything I had built. I had spent years pouring my soul into a future that was never mine to keep. Now, I was boarding a plane to a town I never thought I would step foot in again, where the walls of my new apartment would be bare, where my bed would be cold and empty. And yet, it had to be better than staying. It had to be.

The plane rumbled beneath me, the weight of the cabin pressing into my chest as it began its slow, inevitable climb into the sky. I stared out the window, watching the city shrink beneath me, its lights flickering like distant ghosts. Everything I had known, everything I had built, was disappearing beneath the thick blanket of night. I had imagined leaving a thousand times before, but never like this. Never alone.

The engines roared, drowning out the thoughts clawing their way through my mind. This was it. The point of no return. There was no going back to the home that wasn’t mine anymore, no walking through the door to be greeted by the dog that would never understand why I had left. No familiar warmth of my cat curling into my side at night. No laughter, no shared bed, no whispered promises.

I tightened my grip on the armrest, feeling the turbulence rattle through my bones. I was weightless, untethered, drifting into a future I had never planned for. I had spent so long pouring myself into a life that had never truly belonged to me, and now, there was nothing left to do but watch it fade away.

That last kiss was nothing more than a funeral, and I had no choice but to lay us to rest.