“I don’t hate you,” he said. “I hate what we became.”

“Then fix yourself first,” she said. “And maybe… one day, we meet as different people.”

“Your husband. .” Andre turned the screen. A photo. Maya entering this same hotel, last week.

Andre hung up. She knew he wouldn’t call again. A week later, Maya packed a single suitcase. Rendra stood in the doorway of their bedroom.

“And?”

Maya didn’t flinch. “So what now? You’ll cry? Throw things?”

Rendra’s face went pale.

“You’re late,” he said.