She learned early that numbers told the truth adults refused to say out loud. Campaign donations, polling spikes, approval ratings—his love was always measured in public metrics, never in the quiet math of birthdays remembered or calls returned. She watched strangers cry over his speeches while she folded laundry alone, listening to his voice through televisions instead of through a receiver held to her ear. The country argued about whether he was a hero or a monster, but both sides agreed on one thing: he belonged to them more than he ever belonged to her.
So she made a choice no voter could make at a ballot box. She withdrew her consent from the private tyranny of his indifference. No cameras rolled as she deleted his number, as she stopped rehearsing conversations that would never happen. History might inscribe his name in marble; she chose to etch her own into the life he never bothered to know.
