Page 45 of The Yoga Teacher

She froze when she saw him.

Her arms were crossed loosely over a file folder, her mouth tightening just enough to betray her reaction.

“Daniel,” she said carefully. “You’re… here.”

“Yeah.” His voice felt scratchy. “I just need five minutes.”

She didn’t answer right away. Just looked at him, like she was deciding whether to bother being polite.

She finally nodded, curtly.

He could still salvage this.

He had to believe that.

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Daniel followed her down the hallway, the click of her heels sharp against the linoleum. The building was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet that dared you to speak and warned you not to.

They stopped at a small glass-walled office near the end of the corridor. It was tidy but lived-in. A corner plant with glossy leaves. A ceramic mug with a chipped rim. A framed photo on the shelf—her and a dozen smiling staff members on a retreat he didn’t even know she’d gone on.

He’d never been here before.

That realization hit like a punch to the sternum.

He’d been her husband. Her partner. But he had never stepped foot into the space where she spent most of her wakinghours. Had never seen the version of her that lived here—capable, respected, hers.

Now he was here because she’d told her lawyer she didn’t want to talk at home.

She didn’t offer him a seat. Just set a folder on the desk—one he recognized—and turned to face him with her arms crossed lightly over her chest.

The silence was brutal.

“Well?” she said.

His throat was dry. “Don’t do this.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“Our marriage isn’t over,” he said, voice too tight, too fast. “If we could just talk—really talk—”

“Wearetalking,” she said, cool and level. “You have five minutes.”

Daniel’s chest clenched.

“Hannah,” he tried again, his voice cracking slightly. “Come on. I know I messed up, but we were more than that. We wereus.You can’t throw it all away because of—because ofher.”

She flinched. Just slightly. But it was enough to make him stop.

When she spoke, her voice was quiet. Not cold. Not angry. Just… hollow. Like the echo of something that had already died.

“You were the person I trusted most in the world.”

His breath hitched.

“You made me feel safe. Even when things were hard. Even when I was tired, or scared, or so angry I could barely speak—you were still my safe place.”

She paused. And in the stillness, Daniel felt something shift.

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