The ghost of our quietest mornings

Dear Delyara, I am standing in the middle of the living room, staring at the exact spot where our small dining table used to sit. For years, we shared our mornings there—passing the paper back and forth, arguing softly over who forgot to buy milk, and planning vacations we never actually took. Now, there is only a light square of unfaded carpet where the table once stood, a clean, accusing geometry of everything I failed to protect. The legal split is finished, the paperwork is filed away in a sterile drawer, and the rest of the world tells me it is time to turn the page. But how do I explain to my quiet flat that the empty space on the carpet hurts worse than the entire legal battle? I am living in a museum of a life we spent a decade building, and I am the only one left to pay the admission.