Page 68 of The Yoga Teacher

He had stayed.

Even after she left.

Even after he broke everything.t.

His stomach turned.

She should’ve had this place.

He should’ve packed his things the day it all imploded.

He should’ve handed her the keys, kissed her forehead, and left it all to her.

But he hadn’t.

And that failure, like so many others, was now folded into the walls.

He saved the bedroom for last.

It wasn’t a strategy. He’d just needed to work up to it.

He stepped inside and the air changed. Like the room knew.

Daniel walked to the dresser. He folded her hoodie with aching slowness, her socks matched in pairs. Her scent lingered on the fabric, subtle but unmistakable.

The ghost of something he used to call home.

He worked until the sun dipped low behind the curtains, casting the living room in soft gold.

Six boxes. One bag. A single scarf he almost missed, still draped over the back of a chair.

This was all he could do now.

Make her leaving less painful.

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He sat on the edge of what used to be their bed, fists clenched on his knees, eyes trained on her like looking away might make her disappear again.

She moved through the room without looking at him. Calm. Quiet. Methodical.

She wasn’t packing—just checking. Just confirming what was hers and what was gone. It was the kind of motion you made when you’d already done the grieving. When you were done hoping.

Daniel wasn’t done.

Not even close.

But hope, now, felt like something he wasn’t allowed to want.

He wanted to say something—anything.

To ask if she needed help. To ask if she’d eaten. To ask if she was okay.

But he didn’t deserve the answer to any of those questions.

Instead, he stayed still, unable to look away from Hannah, his wife, the woman he’d destroyed.

She bent to retrieve a shoebox from the closet—one he’d missed—and he saw her fingers pause on the lid. A tremble, slight and sharp, before she tucked it into the box.

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