Note 11/16/2022 8:10:42 Am - Online Notepad Page

I didn't want to hurt you. I thought if I stayed, I could make myself feel it again. But it’s not fair to you to live with someone who is only half there.

He heard the floorboards creak upstairs. Sarah was awake. In a few moments, the shower would start. She would get ready for her day, completely unaware that her husband was pouring his guilt into a temporary browser window on a random website.

Arthur looked at the cursor. If he closed the tab, the note would vanish forever. No recovery. No history. It was a digital scream into the void. Note 11/16/2022 8:10:42 AM - Online Notepad

With a heavy breath, he clicked the small "X" on the browser tab. The screen reverted to his desktop background—a picture of them on vacation in Greece, smiling.

For seven years, they had built a life. A dog, a mortgage, mismatched coffee mugs, and a shared calendar that dictated their every move. But for the last six months, Arthur had felt like a ghost walking through his own home. He had fallen out of love, not with a crash, but with a slow, agonizingly quiet fade. He typed another line. I didn't want to hurt you

He stopped. The radiator in the corner clanked loudly, a rhythmic, metallic ticking that matched the pulsing in his ears. He looked at the time at the top of the notepad. 8:11:05 AM. Time was moving too fast.

Arthur closed the laptop, stood up, and went to make the coffee. He would tell her today, face to face. The notepad had served its purpose; it had held his fear for a moment so that he didn't have to. He heard the floorboards creak upstairs

Sarah, the note began. If you are reading this, it means I couldn't find the words to say it to your face. That makes me a coward. I know.