THE NOVEMBER morning felt fresh and bright, the whisper of dried leaves swirling across busy streets mingling with the way Auden's boots clicked against the stair's steps. She was leaving Brigid's townhouse, her breath forming faint clouds that dissipated before she could watch them fade. Dublin's city center stirred around her with the particular energy of a Tuesday – commuters clutching takeaway cups, students hurrying toward Trinity with backpacks slung over shoulders, the symphony of buses and taxis building like a crescendo.

Her hands trembled as she pulled the door closed behind her, though whether from cold or nerves, she couldn't say. Three days back in Dublin, and it felt as if she had never left. Brigid's guest room with its sage walls and half-unpacked boxes felt more like home than the house she'd shared with Cillian.

It almost made her laugh. She had traveled the width of Ireland to re-touch, only to discover that home was a borrowed bed in her best friend's spare room, where she could sleep through the night without the threat of undoing.

She walked south toward Grafton Street, her stride willful – not the frantic pace of someone running away, but not quite the leisurely gait of someone who belonged.

The sunlight filtered through sparse November clouds in shades of pearl and pewter, warming her exposed cheeks. Auden slid her sunglasses over her eyes, the unassuming gesture monumental in the way it allowed her to slip into a façade of anonymity. Around her, shop windows displayed autumn arrangements – russet leaves and weathered pumpkins, gourds with pimpled skins, woolen scarves in jewel tones. All reminders that the world continued its seasonal rotations regardless of personal upheavals.

Her phone buzzed with a text from Brigid:

[BRIGID]: Opening now. No rush. Love you.

The simple kindness of it – the assumption that she would return to work, that she had a place to come back to – threatened to undo her composure. She'd spent the past three nights on Brigid's couch, talking through everything and nothing, being fed proper meals and held when tears came without warning. It was a luxury she'd forgotten existed: unconditional support without expectation of forced reciprocation.

But today required her to be steady. Today, she would look Cillian in the eye for the first time since she'd watched him crumple on their front lawn like an unsteady house of cards.

A coffee shop appeared ahead – an unremarkable place tucked between a bookstore and a vintage clothing shop. She'd chosen it deliberately: obscure enough that no one would recognize her, close enough to the park that she wouldn't have time to lose her nerve. The morning rush had thinned, leaving only a handful of customers scattered among mismatched chairs and tables worn smooth by years of use.

"What can I get you?" The barista greeted as Auden stepped up to order. She was young, maybe twenty, with the kind of effortless beauty that belonged to women who hadn't yet learned to doubt it yet. It made Auden feel ancient.

"A cinnamon oat milk latte, please." Her eyes traced the hand-painted menu above the register, all cream-colored cursive adorned with cornucopias and apples. It evoked a warmth and fuzziness that failed to penetrate the ice in her chest.

"To go," she added, the words barely a mumble.

She paid with cash, leaving a generous tip – guilt money, really – and wrapped her fingers around the paper cup like a talisman.

Back on the street, she walked another two blocks before spotting the park she'd suggested. More of a pocket garden really, with a few benches arranged around a fountain that had long since ceased functioning. At this hour, it attracted only the occasional dog walker and pensioners feeding pigeons – people absorbed in their own routines, blessedly indifferent to personal catastrophes.

Cillian was already there.

Even from a distance, she could see that he looked terrible. His typical meticulous appearance — influenced by producer meetings and editing boards — had given way to something approaching dishevelment.

His hair needed cutting, threads of silver against dark chocolate swirling and curling just above his eyebrows. He had a stubble that suggested days of neglecting mirrors. He wore the black leather coat she'd bought him for his birthday two years ago, but it hung on him differently now, as if he'd somehow lost weight he couldn't spare. When he turned at the sound of her approach, she caught sight of the exhaustion written in the shadows beneath his eyes, the pallor of someone who'd been sleeping and eating poorly for weeks.

She swallowed against the surge of guilt-induced nausea that threatened to derail everything about this meeting. His shoulders were hunched forward in a way that made him look smaller, defensive – nothing like the confident man she had been so accustomed to.

"Hey," she managed, her voice sounding hoarse even to her own ears. Her palms began to sweat despite the chill, the to-go cup only exacerbating the sensation.

Cillian tilted his head, and she watched him school his features into neutrality – a performance she recognized from years of watching him prepare for scenes. "Aud."

Her nickname sounded rusty in his voice, as if he hadn't spoken it aloud since she'd called three nights ago. They stood facing each other across three feet of empty space that might as well have been an ocean. She could see him cataloging the changes in her appearance – the way her hair was smoothed and waved, how her shoulders seemed more relaxed than her mind felt.

His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.

After a moment that stretched too long, he cleared his throat. "We gonna sit or...?"

"Right, yeah, of course." She settled onto the bench, leaving enough room that he could sit without them touching – a choreography of avoidance they'd perfected over months of existing in the same house without truly occupying the same space. He hesitated before joining her, his movements watchful, like if he moved too quickly, got too close, she would bolt.

The wind shifted, carrying the scent of his cologne toward her. It was that woody, expensive smell that used to make her feel safe and now only reminded her of all the ways they'd learned to hurt each other. She inhaled sharply, her shoulders tensing, and saw him notice the reaction from her peripheral vision.

Neither spoke. Both were unsure of how to approach this meeting. Next to her, Cillian nervously picked at his cuticles, head bent so his eyes remained shielded by shadow. He'd always worried at his hands when he was anxious, picking at the skin until it bled. She used to catch his fingers, still them with her own touch. But now, she kept her hands wrapped around her cup.

Cillian broke the tension first.

"You look good," he said quietly, "Rested."

It wasn't entirely true – she'd spent three nights lying awake, rehearsing this conversation – but she knew what he meant.

The frantic edge that had driven her to near-destruction had softened into something less immediately visible. But that was just a post-vacation glow. The constant hum of anxiety that had followed her around their house like a shadow still clutched in similar ways, but had somehow become more manageable. She knew that was because Cillian hadn't been there to unknowingly feed it with every glance, every chosen word, every gesture that reminded her how far they'd fallen.

"Thank you." She sipped her latte, buying time, acutely aware of how he tracked the movement with side long glances. Cillian caught the way she licked foam from her bottom lip, a gesture so mundane it shouldn't have felt intimate. But everything between them had become loaded with significance, weighted with the history of touch long tainted.

"How are you managing?" The question came out softer than she'd intended, and she watched his shoulders drop slightly, some invisible armor loosening.

"I'm not." The honesty surprised them both. This wasn't the deflection she'd expected nor was it another performance designed to elicit guilt or sympathy. This bluntness felt new, or perhaps very old – an echo of the man she'd fallen in love with before he'd learned to perform every conversation, back when he would say exactly what he felt when he felt it.

She watched him process his own admission, saw the moment he realized he'd revealed more than he'd planned. His fingers stilled against his thighs, and she could practically see him debating whether to retreat behind familiar defenses.

"And Kittie?" Auden asked quickly, attempting to keep him here and present. The name of her daughter felt foreign in her mouth, coated with all the maternal guilt she'd been carrying like weights tied to her ankles.

At this, Cillian's entire posture changed – his back straightened, hands curling into loose fists, jaw setting with the hardness that often came when discussing their daughter's needs. They were both staring resolutely ahead now, two people sharing a bench while steadfastly avoiding each other's gaze, as if eye contact might shatter whatever fragile civility they'd managed to construct.

"Emma's been amazing with her," he replied, and she could hear him working to keep his voice level. "But she's asking about you constantly. When you're coming home, why you went away..." His voice caught, and she glanced at him, watching as he chewed on his bottom lip. "I don't know what to tell her anymore."

The knife of responsibility twisted in her chest, but she forced herself not to show it. She'd practiced this in Brigid's mirror – maintaining composure while discussing Catherine, not letting him see how the remorse was eating her alive.

"I'm seeing her today," Auden reveled. "Emma's bringing her to the park near the gallery after she's out of school. I'll talk to her then."

His head snapped toward her so suddenly she could feel the intensity of his gaze even through her sunglasses. The movement was sharp, almost violent in its surprise, and she kept her attention fixed on the empty park ahead, watching pigeons peck at scattered crumbs with determined focus.

"So, when I'm at work. You made sure I couldn't be there." It wasn't a question, and the flatness in his voice made her stomach clench.

She nodded once, the gesture brief and decisive. "Yes. I need to ease back into this. For Kittie's sake. And I need to talk to her without you there – without any possibility of my words being twisted or giving her some false hope. This needs to happen one conversation at a time."

She could feel him processing, could practically hear the wheels turning as he worked through the implications of what this meant. His breathing had changed, becoming more shallow, and she recognized the signs of him trying to control his temper. They sat in silence while he digested her words, what they meant for his access to both his wife and daughter simultaneously.

"Is this it then?" His voice was barely audible, and despite herself, she found herself straining to hear him. "Are you leaving me?"

Now she looked at him, turning to meet his gaze through the shield of her sunglasses. The broken expression he wore made something crack in her chest – this wasn't the manipulative vulnerability he sometimes deployed like a weapon, but genuine devastation. She'd known this question was coming, had rehearsed various responses over the past few days, but the raw hurt in his voice wiped all those careful scripts clean.

All she could think about was how familiar this felt. How they'd had this exact conversation years ago, but with their roles reversed. She'd been twenty-nine to his forty-seven then, and he'd been the one forcing distance to preserve whatever pieces of himself remained intact.

"Yes," she replied, and he openly grimaced. "I'm separating from you."

The color drained from his cheeks, but he worked to keep any emotion from his expression. Cillian was so well trained to produce that particular manner that felt everything while showing nothing. But she knew him too well; could see the minute tremor in his hands, the way his nostrils flared slightly as he fought for control.

"For how long?" He questioned in an almost professional tone, as if they were discussing contract negotiations rather than the potential dissolution of their marriage.

"I don't know." She chewed on the inside of her cheek. The small pain helped her stay focused, grounded in this moment rather than floating away into the safety of dissociation.

"Well, where are you gonna you go?" He leaned back against the bench, arms crossing tight over his chest in a defensive posture. He was prepping for an argument that Auden would try her hardest not to give — his shoulders were rigid, every line of his body radiating the kind of controlled panic that came from feeling completely powerless. "You can't stay with Brigid indefinitely."

"I won't tell you where."

He flinched at her directness, his face frown deepening.

"I know you, Cillian," Auden continued. "You'll show up with flowers or some drunken speech and all the dramatic gestures that make you so effective at your job. I'm not putting up with that this time."

He tilted his head at that, the movement carrying a thread of the old arrogance that both infuriated and attracted her. It sent a flare of irritation up her chest – that he could still slip into that persona even now, even when they were discussing her walking out.

"So what? You're just going to disappear again?" His voice gained an edge, anger bleeding through control. "Leave me wondering if you're dead or alive?"

She supposed she deserved that – the accusation held its roots in her recent vanishing act, all those days when she'd turned off her phone and left him to imagine the worst.

"No." She sighed loudly, before reaching into her coat pocket to withdraw a small white card, the edges slightly bent from being carried around for weeks. "I want you to have this."

He took it reluctantly, his fingers brushing hers for just a moment – skin contact that felt both electric and wrong. She watched him read the embossed text, saw the exact moment understanding dawned across his features.

"Marriage and Family Support?" His laugh was bitter. "Really?"

"My GP gave it to me weeks ago. Before I left." She hesitated, studying the disgust that had settled across his face like a mask. "Dr. Walsh said it would help."

"And you think talking to some stranger about our private business is going to fix our marriage?" The creep of disbelief in his voice was achingly familiar – Cillian's relationship with vulnerability had always been complicated. He could access it for her when necessary, could summon tears or rage as a last-ditch effort, but genuine introspection terrified him in ways that standing naked in front of millions of strangers never had.

"I think it's the only way we're going to have any real conversation about what's broken between us." She forced her voice to remain steady. "If you want to talk to me, it will be through her. After today, from this point on, I will only speak to you if there's a third party present."

His lips parted, features arranging themselves into an expression of pure incredulity. She could see him struggling with the concept – that his own wife was essentially imposing a restraining order level of conditions on their communication.

"I'm not going to beg some therapist to let me speak to my own wife."

"Then we won't speak." The words came out definitive, final, and landed exactly as she'd intended. He rolled his eyes, but she could see the fear beneath the dismissal. "And I won't schedule the appointments, Cillian. You need to call her yourself. You need to show initiative that you actually want things to change – not just go back to how they were, but actually change."

He shook his head rapidly, three sharp movements of denial. "We don't need a therapist to tell us how to fix our marriage. We can do that ourselves."

"Really?" She turned to face him fully now, pushing her sunglasses over her forehead to rest on her head. He seemed almost startled by the direct confrontation. "Because I slapped you across the face, and you haven't brought it up once. You're not even angry at me for getting violent with you. You're more concerned about me leaving than the fact that the last time we saw each other, we were practically punching each other in the middle of our driveway."

"Yeah, things are tense between us but—"

"There is no but." Her voice rose as she cut through his deflection. "I hit you. Bottom line. And I am sorry that I did."

The apology hung between them, and she caught his defenses slowly begin to crumble. He rubbed his fingers across his bottom lip – another nervous gesture she knew by heart – before scratching at the stubble that made him look older, more weathered.

Apologies weren't common currency for her; it took genuine remorse for Auden to admit wrongdoing. She'd disappeared for almost two weeks rather than face this conversation, but unlike her husband in recent years, when she said she was sorry, she meant it without conditions or caveats. He knew this about her.

"I provoked you," he responded after a long moment, his voice quieter now. "I shouldn't have put my hands on you to begin with, even if I was just trying to get you to stay."

"You have to understand this is more than that one night, though." She studied his profile, noting the way he kept his gaze fixed on some point in the distance behind her. "More than that fight. Do you genuinely believe we're working? Are you actually happy?"

"Aud..." He trailed off, finally flicking his eyes to look at her. Her nickname was riddled with pain, longing and defeat.

A jogger passed by, earbuds blocking out the world, focused on nothing but forward motion. A mother pushed a pram across the street, her toddler chattering about something that made her laugh. Normal people living normal lives, unmarked by the devastation of watching love calcify into habit disguised as devotion.

She felt her body tilt toward him involuntarily, her coat barely brushing against his sleeve. Her voice dropped an octave lower.

"Tell me, are you happy?"

Tears welled in his eyes, his mouth tightening into a thin line as he fought against it. But his hesitation was answer enough – the silence stretched between them, full with truth neither of them had been willing to voice. Even without words, Auden had her answer, though it was clearly too painful for him to admit aloud.

The understanding that settled between them felt seismic and soundless all at once. This wasn't some explosive recognition of irreconcilable differences, but the somber acknowledgment that somewhere in the architecture of their marriage, crucial supports had given way. They could continue living in the structure, pretending the walls weren't cracking, but eventually it would collapse entirely, taking them and their daughter down with it.

Without thinking, Auden lifted her free hand and reached for him. Gently, she placed her palm against his upper arm, feeling the way his muscles melted instantly under her touch – all that rigidness dissolving as if her hand held some kind of magic. His arms were still crossed, hands tucked under his armpits, but his entire posture broke at the contact.

Cillian blinked, and several tears finally escaped, tracking down his cheeks in silvery lines. Auden sighed softly, the sound holding all the emotion she couldn't voice – grief and love and terrible, necessary resolution. She let her hand move from his arm to cup his cheek, her thumb automatically wiping away what her heart couldn't bear to see. He leaned into the touch like a man dying of thirst, tilting his head just enough to place a single, desperate kiss against her palm.

Then he pulled back, leaving her hand suspended in empty air for a heartbeat before she curled it back against her body, fingers still tingling from the warmth of his skin.

"Your brother," Cillian said suddenly, his voice forcing a lightness despite the way it trembled. "Aiden. He's driving me absolutely mental."

The abrupt change of subject felt like stepping from a funeral into sunlight. Auden blinked, momentarily disoriented by the shift, but grateful for the reprieve from their mutual devastation.

"Aiden?"

"Did you know your mother was bringing him?" There was something almost accusatory in his tone, as if her family's presence was another strategic move in some game she was playing.

Auden shook her head, genuinely surprised. "I had no idea."

Cillian pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, a gesture of exhaustion that made him look younger and older simultaneously. "I suspect he didn't have much choice in the matter. He spends most of the day moping around the house like a lost dog."

"Well, his dad just died and he broke off his engagement," Auden pointed out, knocking him gently with her shoulder – a gesture so automatic and familiar that they both froze for a moment, startled by the casual intimacy.

Sounds like someone else I once knew, his eyes told her. But he didn't voice this out loud.

"Oh, I know." He said instead as his eyes grew wider. "Aiden has told me every single detail at least three times over. He won't leave me alone – he's convinced himself that his primary duty is to make me feel better about my own romantic catastrophe. Yesterday I caught him organizing my vinyl collection by color instead of alphabetically, because he thought I would 'enjoy looking at a rainbow.'" Cillian's voice took on an incredulous tone. "Color, Aud. Who does that?"

Despite everything – the tears, the pain, the terrible finality of their conversation – she felt her mouth curve upward. "He's a graphic designer now. Everything's visual to him."

"Well, he rearranged my bookshelf too. By height." But Cillian was almost smiling now, and the sight of it – this glimpse of the man she'd fallen in love with still lurking beneath all the damage – made her chest warm. "I couldn't find anything for two hours. I had Yeats shelved next to a how-to book about baking bread."

"How thoroughly traumatic for you," she replied, giggling – an actual, spontaneous rumble of amusement that she hadn't felt in so long.

Cillian groaned, his face twisting as if this domestic reorganization was somehow worse than couples counseling. "I prefer suffering in silence. Alone. With my books in proper order."

"You'll never get to do that with Aiden around," she observed, clicking her tongue sympathetically. "Remember our wedding? When Brigid's date stood her up? He refused to leave her side for the entire reception."

"The image of the two of them making out in the men's restroom is forever seared into my brain," Cillian exhaled a chuckle, but then something else dawned across his features. The ghost of his smile disappeared, replaced by genuine concern. "Oh God," he said, looking at her with a growing alarm. "Aiden's going to try and kiss me, isn't he?"

She burst out laughing then – a cascade of sounds that surprised them both with its authenticity. The laughter seemed to come from somewhere deep in her chest, a door that had been locked but suddenly burst open with creaking hinges. It made Cillian laugh too, his eyes fixed on her face with an awe that made her almost self-conscious.

"Come on, he means well," she managed, feeling a blush beginning to form over her cheeks as she wiped at her eyes.

"I know he does. It's just..." Cillian trailed off, studying her with an expression she could no longer decipher. There was wonder there, and pain, and something that looked almost like hunger. "I'd forgotten how that sounds."

She coughed, eyebrows raising curiously. "What?"

"You laughing. Really laughing and not just being polite towards me because you feel like you have to."

The observation landed as if she'd run into a wall. Her cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink – partly from the cold, but mostly from the recognition of truth. This was how it had always been between them in the good moments: this ease, this particular wavelength they shared that made even terrible situations bearable. These glimpses of connection that felt like coming home, jokes that reminded her why she'd fallen in love with his way of seeing the world.

It would be so easy to let this softness pull her back, to mistake compatibility in crisis for the kind of compatibility that could sustain a marriage through ordinary time.

But these weren't ordinary times. Not anymore.

Cillian seemed to realize this too. She watched him shake his head slightly, as if clearing away dangerous thoughts, before shifting forward and resting his elbows on his knees. He angled his neck to look back at her, and she could see him working to maintain the lighter tone once more.

"How was your tour of Ireland?" The question was forcibly casual, but she made out the underlying curiosity – the need to understand what she'd been seeking in those weeks away from him.

She sipped her latte, now lukewarm and slightly bitter, considering how much truth to offer. "Amazing. Different than I expected."

"Different how?"

"Quieter. More... internal, I suppose." She chose her words delicately, aware that he was visualizing the route of her escape, trying to understand what she'd found that he couldn't provide. "I thought I was running away from everything, but I ended up just running back here instead. In a good way."

He was quiet for a moment, processing this. "What was your favorite place?"

This inquiry felt more loaded than before. There was an unspoken subtext – not just curiosity, but a deeper desire to understand where she'd found peace without him. Auden thought of Mrs. O'Brien's cottage with its chicken and endless tea, of that old man in Allihies, of Patrick's painting in that Killarney gallery and the conversation that had finally put their affair to rest.

But it was Cork that lingered most powerfully in her memory. The recognition of all the lives they might have lived, all the versions of themselves that had never been possible. The devastating realization that even if neither of them had become who they were in this moment, they still would have found each other in every lifetime – and probably would have destroyed each other just the same.

"Cork," she told him, and watched something flicker across his face. "Cork was my favorite."

As she said this, his hands pressed flat against his thighs as if anchoring himself to the bench. She could see him working to keep his reaction neutral, but there was something unguarded in his eyes for just a moment before he looked away.

"Cork," he repeated quietly, and she heard layers in his voice she couldn't quite decipher. Affliction, maybe. Or recognition of some cruel irony she'd stumbled into without meaning to.

"It's beautiful there," she added softly.

He blinked several times with an audible sigh, eyes fixed on the fountain before him as if studying its dormant mechanics required his complete attention. When he finally nodded, he looked at her.

"Yeah," he said, voice barely above a whisper. "It is."

She watched him swallow hard, his jaw working as if he were chewing on the words he wouldn't allow himself to say. The silence that followed felt different now – charged with significance she didn't understand but could feel threading through her ribs like smoke.

"I should go," she said finally, though neither of them moved. "Brigid's at the gallery alone."

"Yeah." He straightened his spine, running a hand through his hair. "Aud... will you at least consider—"

"Don't." She held up a hand, stopping him before he could voice whatever plea he'd been constructing. "Please don't make this harder than it already is."

Cillian exhaled but relented, and she was grateful for the small mercy. She got to her feet, turning to gaze down at him and for a moment they simply looked at each other – two people who had seen each other stripped bare, both emotionally and physically, had brought a child into this world, had entwined their souls in a way that could never truly be undone — not through legalities and paperwork, therapists and their suggestions, or unspoken understandings of needed distance.

No, all those tender intimacies and ordinary miracles would remain apart of them — apart of her, forever. She had gotten her wish in the end, to be woven into Cillian's life in a way that could never, ever be totally extracted.

"The therapist," she said quietly. "Dr. Bergman. If you call her, really call her and show up... maybe we can find our way to something better than this."

"And if I don't?"

She met his eyes fully, letting him see the finality there. "Then we'll figure out custody arrangements through lawyers."

He barely flinched. "I understand."

As Auden moved to walk away, she paused. "Cillian? Tell Aiden I said thank you. For taking care of you."

He almost smiled. "I will."

She held herself there, taking in the way he looked as he sat on the bench with his shoulders curved inward, hands clasped between his knees like a man in prayer. Something in his posture – the despair he couldn't quite hide, the way he seemed smaller – made her throat burn.

It drew her in, habit overcoming reason. She stepped closer and leaned down, pushing back the hair from his forehead before pressing her lips gently to his skin. It was barely more than a whisper of contact, but she felt him go perfectly still beneath the touch. His lids fell half over his eyes, savoring the sensation.

"It's always been you," she murmured against his skin, the words carrying finality that everything else in their conversation had only implied.

When she pulled back, his eyes traveled to meet hers – and in them she saw the same recognition she felt. This was it. The last moment of tenderness between them before he would need to decide if it was better to let this dissipate or fight for it.

He nodded once, unable to speak, and she could see the way he held his breath as if he were afraid that breathing might somehow break the spell of this goodbye.

She left him sitting on the bench, surrounded by pigeons and fallen leaves and the debris of their shared life. As she walked away, she didn't look back – but she could feel his blue eyes on her until she turned the corner, carrying her away from him and toward whatever came next.

The warmth of his forehead lingered on her lips like the promise she knew she couldn't keep.