The phantom weight of a silver band

Dear Delyara, I caught myself twisting the base of my left ring finger tonight while sitting at the security console. The skin there is still slightly indented, a faint, pale groove where a band of precious metal lived for years. The marriage is legally dissolved, the final decrees stamped and filed in a cold government archive, but my muscle memory refuses to accept the verdict. I spend my nights securing boundaries, yet I couldn't protect the most sacred perimeter of my own life. I am left holding a handful of broken promises, sitting in a dark room, wondering how two people can share a bed for a decade and become less than strangers before the ink even dries on the paperwork.