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I can see it in his face. He’s waiting for me to smooth things over. To make the conversation easier and meet him halfway.

The absurdity of it hits me so hard I laugh.

Spencer frowns. “What?”

I shake my head. “You think this is about the birthday.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means we’re having completely different conversations.”

His expression tightens. “Then explain it to me.”

For years, I would’ve. I would’ve searched for the perfect wording, built a careful argument, found examples he couldn’t dismiss.

Now the idea sounds exhausting.

I don’t want to spend another hour convincing my boyfriend that being treated like an afterthought hurts. I don’t want to argue my way into being understood.

The realization settles over me with surprising ease. “Oh.”

His frown deepens. “Oh what?”

I meet his eyes. “We’re done.”

He lets out a short laugh. “Emma.”

“I’m serious.”

The laugh disappears. “You’re upset.”

“Probably.”

“Then stop and think.”

Even a year ago, that would’ve worked. Six months ago, it probably would’ve worked. Today, it only confirms what I already know.

“I have been thinking,” I say. “That’s how I got here.”

His jaw tightens. “So that’s it?”

I glance around the studio.

People are making an impressive show of minding their own business despite the fact that half the hallway is clearly watching us.

A production assistant walks past twice in the span of thirty seconds. Somewhere behind me, a camera operator is moving equipment as quietly as possible.

Life keeps going. My relationship happens to be ending in the middle of it.

“Yeah,” I say. “That’s it.”

“You’re throwing away four years.”

Four years aren’t being thrown away. Four years happened. I learned from them. I survived them. And now they’re over.

I reach for my purse.

Spencer watches me like he’s waiting for the argument to restart, waiting for me to come back and negotiate, waiting for the version of Emma who always stayed.