For never was a story of more Daniel

Act I: One Little Question

The chipped mug. That's where you'd say it started.

She told him not to put it in the dishwasher.

And he, of course, did.

Ah, but no.

That’s not where it started.

It started with me.

One little message. Anonymous. Discreet. Just enough venom to taste —

Not poison. Just… suggestion.

“You sure he’s not seeing her again?”

Six words. That’s all.

I even made the spelling slightly off, so it wouldn’t look too professional.

The sender ID? Blank. The number? Untraceable. The delivery? Perfect.

I sent it while Elise was in line at the pharmacy, waiting for her migraine meds. Her phone lit up. She frowned. She stared. The receipt printer jammed.

Timing.

She didn’t respond. She didn’t delete it either.

And by the time she walked through the front door that night, she was a bit quieter than usual. She kicked off her shoes just a little too hard. She didn’t hug him. She noticed the dishwasher running.

He greeted her with:

“Hey babe, I finally remembered to run the dishwasher.”

Oh, Daniel.

She didn’t say anything, not right away.

She walked over, opened it. And there it was:

The mug.

The one she loved.

Speckled ceramic, hand-thrown, soft blue glaze. They bought it at that arts market when things still felt like a team sport.

Now, chipped.

Right on the rim.

“Are you serious?”

It wasn’t a shout. Not yet. But it was the kind of tone that carries old wars in it.

“What?”

“I told you not to put this in the dishwasher.”

“I didn’t— Wait, yeah, okay, but I thought—”

“You thought what? That it would magically be fine? That I was overreacting? That it’s just a mug?”

She didn’t know, you see, that her anger had roots in a different garden.

She thought she was mad about ceramic.

But no. She was mad about doubt.

She was mad about that message — sitting like rot behind her ribs.

Daniel didn’t know that.

He just saw the mug, the frown, the way she looked at him like something behind her eyes had closed.

So he did what he always does.

He explained.

“Look, I didn’t mean to. I just— I was trying to help, okay? You’ve been saying I don’t do enough around here and—”

“And now it’s broken.”

She held it up.

The chip wasn’t even that big. Just enough to catch a lip if you weren’t careful.

“You’re making this a bigger deal than—”

Wrong.

“Don’t tell me what kind of deal this is.”

“I’m not! I’m just saying—Jesus, Elise, it’s a mug!”

And there.

Right there.

That’s where the fracture began.

It echoed through their kitchen like a splintering branch under too much weight.

He thought the fight would end in twenty minutes.

He thought she’d cool off.

But Elise stayed cold.

She washed the mug by hand, slowly, even though it was already broken.

Daniel sulked on the couch, scrolling his phone, waiting for her to say something.

She went to bed in silence.

And as Daniel stared at the ceiling fan spinning like a lazy blade, he thought:

“Why does everything turn into a fight lately?”

I leaned over his shoulder. Whispered:

“Because she’s starting to wonder who you really are.”

He didn’t hear it — not consciously.

But his stomach twisted.

He turned off the light.

I smiled.

This is all my fault.

Act II: Trying Isn’t the Same as Changing

Apologies, when offered too late, start to rot.

They smell like desperation.

Like guilt reheated.

Daniel tried.

Oh, he tried.

Day One after the mug incident, he brought flowers. Cheap ones. Supermarket variety. Wrapped in crinkled cellophane like regret in plastic.

“I’m sorry. Seriously.”

She didn’t touch them. Just moved them to the far end of the kitchen counter, next to the unpaid water bill and the coupons.

Day Three, he booked a therapist.

Found the name online: “Janine – Couples, Conflict Resolution, Mindful Reconnection.”

The waiting room had a koi fountain. They sat side by side, scrolling their phones like teenagers forced to interact in public.

Janine had glasses with purple rims and an accent that sounded like she once lived somewhere exciting.

“So. What brought you both in today?”

“Communication issues,” Daniel said too quickly.

Elise didn’t speak.

When she finally did, she said:

“He breaks things. Then he explains why it’s not really his fault.”

Delicious.

I sat on Janine’s bookshelf between The Five Love Languages and a wooden bust of a meditating man. I watched. I listened.

Janine nodded.

“Daniel, do you feel your intentions are being misunderstood?”

“Yes! I mean—I never mean to hurt her. But she assumes the worst.”

Elise laughed. One syllable. Sharp.

“That’s rich.”

Later, outside, Elise lit a cigarette, even though she’d quit six years ago.

Daniel flinched.

“Why are you smoking again?”

“Because I’m out of reasons not to.”

She got in the car without him.

But he didn’t give up, not just yet.

Two weeks later: the dinner.

He made a reservation at La Mezzanotte. Candlelight. The kind of place where the waiter refills your water after every sip.

The Trick?

I moved their reservation by twenty-three minutes.

That’s all it took.

They arrived late. The hostess flustered.

Their table was given away.

The only seat left was next to the restrooms, behind a column. Elise was already in a bad mood from work. She hated feeling like a plan B.

Daniel tried to charm her with jokes. She wasn’t charmed.

He ordered wine. Knocked over his glass while reaching for the bread.

Red splash across white linen.

The waiter brought napkins.

Elise whispered something the waiter heard, but Daniel didn’t.

They drove home in silence.

The papers arrived two Mondays later.

She left them on the kitchen counter with a sticky note:

I’m done waiting for you to get it.

Daniel didn’t sign right away.

He let them sit.

He hoped that by not signing, he was sending a message. Something meaningful. Something noble.

But Elise didn’t bite.

She came back the following Saturday. Not to reconcile. Just to collect winter coats.

He tried one more time:

“Please don’t do this.”

She looked at him like he was a vase with a slow crack in it.

“You keep saying sorry. But you don’t change anything.”

He opened his mouth.

Closed it.

She left.

Outside, the air was grey and sharp with cold.

Daniel stood in the driveway, watching her tail lights fade.

He didn’t cry. That would’ve felt too much like a scene in a movie.

He just stood there. Like maybe if he stayed still enough, time would reverse.

It didn’t.

I stood next to him.

I even blew into my hands for show, as if I could feel the chill.

This is my fault.

(And also — that sticky note? I wrote that.)

Act III: You Can’t Stay Here

You know what I love about houses?

They rot quietly.

They creak and leak and warp behind drywall while everyone inside pretends nothing’s wrong.

Just like marriages.

Just like Daniel.

Oh, he tried to keep it together.

After Elise left, he rearranged the living room.

Moved the couch. Vacuumed. Changed the throw pillows.

As if shifting the furniture might erase the outline of where she used to sit.

“Fresh start,” he muttered to himself.

I almost applauded. Almost.

Instead, I whispered a tiny delay into his online banking app.

His mortgage payment bounced.

Not a big deal. Just a hiccup. A clerical error.

“Should clear up by Monday,” the bank told him.

It didn’t.

He called the loan officer.

Put on his professional voice.

Waited on hold for forty-six minutes while some smooth jazz track on a loop pretended not to be malicious.

(For the record, I wrote that jazz track. It’s called “Default in D Minor.”)

Then came the realtor letter.

We’re following up regarding your mortgage status...

It was polite. Condescending.

Like a smile from someone who already sold your house to someone younger.

Daniel panicked.

Sold his watch. Cashed in sick days.

But — oh no. He missed one piece of paperwork.

One very important form.

Where did it go, I wonder?

And then — ah, my favorite part — the leak.

He was supposed to meet with a property assessor at noon.

At 11:17, the upstairs toilet decided to weep dramatically through the ceiling.

Not explode. That would be tacky.

Just enough to make the plaster sag, weep, and sigh like it was finally giving up.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Daniel tried to mop it, curse it, tighten valves.

Everything he touched got wetter.

“It’s never leaked before,” he kept saying.

I know.

The assessor rang the bell.

Took one look at the towel on the floor, the bucket beneath the bulge in the ceiling, and said:

“We’ll be in touch.”

He wouldn’t.

Two weeks later, the notice came.

He had thirty days.

Daniel sat on the stairs, holding the letter like it might rewrite itself.

Boxes started stacking.

Books packed in haste.

The living room echoing more each day.

He left the bedroom for last.

Stood in the doorway one night, just staring at the closet.

Her half was still a little emptier. It always had been.

The silence in that room was pristine.

Museum-quality heartbreak.

And the night before he moved out?

I left a candle burning.

Not enough to catch fire.

I’m not cruel. (Well. Not that cruel.)

Just enough to melt a slow wax river down the counter — right onto the wood.

A scar, you see.

Something for the new owners to wonder about.

A little piece of Daniel that would never leave.

He locked the door on a Thursday.

Didn’t cry. Didn’t speak.

Just stood there for a long time with his key in his hand, like maybe someone would pull up, open the window, call out his name.

No one did.

He slid the key into the realtor’s drop box.

Got into his car.

I rode shotgun.

“Art, darling,” I whispered, “is in the timing.”

“This is all my fault.”

Act IV: He’s Been Off Lately

Let’s talk about the workplace, shall we?

A perfectly sterile arena for subtle cruelty.

Fluorescent lighting. Stale coffee.

Polite nods with razors tucked behind the teeth.

And Daniel?

Oh, he gave it everything.

He showed up early.

Ironed shirts. Breath mints.

He offered to cover meetings. Sent late-night emails with subject lines like “Quick Follow-Up!” and “Circling Back (Again!)”

He even made a spreadsheet.

You know things are bad when a man makes an unsolicited spreadsheet.

But then — ah yes — Casey arrived.

Fresh out of grad school. Wide-eyed. Impossibly competent.

“So grateful to be working with Daniel,” she said in her first meeting.

And she meant it. Poor thing.

But gratitude fades fast when whispers begin.

And who started them?

Guess.

I began with Marcus — the one who always tried too hard to be liked.

“Has Daniel been okay lately?” I said at the printer, like an afterthought.

“He’s seemed… distracted.”

Marcus nodded. Didn’t say much.

But later that day, he told Priya.

“Not trying to gossip, but…”

Music to my ears.

The next week, Daniel was ten minutes late.

Not because of negligence.

Because his radiator cracked and vomited steam all over his driveway.

(You’re welcome.)

He rushed into the Monday meeting, red-faced and apologetic.

Mr. Whittaker — whose soul had long since been replaced by a performance review rubric — made a note.

Not a word. Just a pen stroke.

And then came the incident.

Daniel was presenting Q3 metrics. His slide deck was meticulous — if a little bland.

Casey, bless her, raised a hand halfway through.

“Just wondering — do we have the updated vendor data included? I sent it last night.”

Daniel blinked.

He hadn’t seen it.

Why hadn’t he seen it?

Oh right.

Because I flagged her email as spam.

Tucked it into a junk folder with seven Nigerian princes and a penis enlargement ad.

He floundered. Apologized. Fumbled for a file.

Whittaker stared at him like a man scanning a résumé mid-firing.

Three days later:

He was pulled into HR.

Not fired.

Just… “repositioned.”

His title stripped. His email rights limited.

His desk — reassigned.

He was given a smaller one. By the hallway. Next to the printer. It made noises.

Casey took his old desk.

She apologized profusely. Brought him a muffin.

“I didn’t ask for this. I just… I guess they like my presentation style.”

He smiled. Said it was fine.

He went to the restroom and threw up.

The final moment came on a Friday.

He was summoned again — this time not by HR, but by a calendar invite marked:

“Check-In + Transition Planning”

Even I giggled.

He wore a tie.

It didn’t help.

Whittaker was “regretful.”

There was “no longer a role suited to his experience.”

There was an envelope.

There was a severance clause.

Daniel nodded like a man accepting a fatal diagnosis.

“Is there… was it something I did?”

Whittaker looked uncomfortable.

Shifted. Cleared his throat.

“Honestly? There were just… concerns. Around morale. Leadership perception. You’ve… been off lately.”

Oh, Daniel.

So trusting. So predictable.

So breakable.

He packed his desk slowly.

No one made eye contact.

Even Marcus avoided him.

Priya said, “Sorry to hear, man.”

Jenna offered a nod.

Casey brought another muffin.

“If you ever want me to put in a word somewhere…”

He left it on the desk.

He got in his car and sat still for a long time.

Hands on the wheel. Engine off.

The parking lot emptied around him.

I sat in the passenger seat, basking in the afterglow like I’d just had the best sex of my life.

“What a delicious little office tragedy.”

“This is all my fault.”

Act V: And Then There Was Nothing

Here we are.

The final act.

The curtain call.

The ash after the fire.

No Elise.

No home.

No job.

Nothing left but Daniel.

And me, of course.

The first thing he tried to do was make a list.

Oh, I loved that.

It had bullet points.

Underlines.

Hopeful verbs like “reach out,” “reconnect,” “revise résumé.”

He sat in a borrowed studio apartment with a view of someone else’s brick wall and wrote:

• Call Aaron

• Email recruiters

• Update LinkedIn

• Talk to Mom

He got as far as Aaron.

“Hey, man. Just wanted to check in, maybe grab a beer?”

No reply.

Seen.

Still nothing.

You see, Aaron had already heard about the Elise thing.

And the work thing.

And gossip moves fast when it smells like failure.

The recruiter responded once.

“Thanks for reaching out! We’ll circle back if something opens up.”

They wouldn’t.

Daniel opened his laptop every morning.

He stared at tabs: job boards, news articles, his old company’s website like an ex's Instagram.

Sometimes he applied.

Sometimes he just scrolled until the screen blurred.

Sometimes he’d get up, go to the mirror, and try to imagine being someone else.

Anyone else.

His mother left voicemails.

Sweet ones. Long. Full of advice he didn’t ask for.

“I’m worried about you, Danny. Just call me, okay? We can talk. I made meatloaf.”

He didn’t call.

It was easier not to explain.

Besides, what would he say?

"Hi Mom, I think I might be evaporating."

"Hi Mom, I don’t recognize the man wearing my face."

Once, he walked to the park down the street.

Sat on a bench for two hours.

Just watched squirrels.

Didn’t even have his phone.

When he stood up to leave, he realized the spot where he sat had iced over with condensation.

A ghost’s outline.

I was quiet now.

Not out of mercy.

But reverence.

You don’t talk during the final movement of a symphony.

You just let it ache.

Daniel tried therapy again.

Online this time.

Sliding scale.

He filled out the intake form.

Stopped at the question:

“What are your goals for treatment?”

He typed:

“To feel like a person again.”

Then closed the tab.

Rent was late.

Twice.

He sold his TV.

Pawned the engagement ring.

His phone buzzed once. Unknown number.

He didn’t answer.

Neither did they.

One day, he walked into a coffee shop.

Ordered a small black coffee and sat there for two hours.

Didn’t drink it.

Just held it.

Like warmth was something he had to borrow.

The barista asked if he was okay.

He smiled.

“Yeah. Just… thinking.”

Later that night, I sat beside him on the fire escape.

The city was below, pretending not to notice him.

He had his head in his hands.

No tears.

No movement.

Just stillness.

It was the stillness of someone who’d run out of versions of themselves to be.

He whispered:

“What happened to me?”

I leaned in.

Ran a finger down the side of his face like a lover.

Smiled.

“This... all of this... is my fault.”

Curtain Call: "Oh, You Believed Me?"

Lights up. Spot on me.

Ah. You're still here.

You watched the whole thing, didn’t you?

You followed every scene.

Every fall.

Every moment he flinched, doubted, crumbled.

You watched him lose everything and thought:

“Poor Daniel. What bad luck.”

“That’s just how life goes sometimes.”

But no.

I told you from the beginning.

“This is my fault.”

And now?

Well...

Now you’re wondering —

Was I real?

Was I a voice? A demon? A person?

Or was I just… the shape of his own undoing?

Maybe it was never me.

Maybe it was just what people do when they’re too proud to bend, too scared to speak, too late to fix what they broke.

Maybe I’m just how you explain the collapse.

Maybe I’m your excuse for watching it all happen.

Either way?

You believed me.

You followed every word.

You clung to the thread like it might save him.

So I’ll say it one more time.

“This is all my fault.”

And you believed everything I said.

Well…

I guess that is my fault too.