Three days a week, she wore a soft cardigan and cooked dinners that smelled like rosemary and regret. She listened to his stories about the office, nodding in the right places. She even slept over on Thursdays, lying on the left side of the bed, her back to his gentle, undemanding hands.

She looked at the check. It was generous. It was also an ending she hadn't prepared for.

The "fallen" part wasn't dramatic. She didn't trip or stumble. It was slower. She had fallen out of the rhythm of a real life. She had traded the chaos of love for the order of a job, and somewhere between the grocery list and the guest-room closet, she had forgotten she was an actress playing a wife. The stage had been small—a two-bedroom condo, a weekly calendar, a drawer with her toothbrush. But the curtain had come down anyway.

But today, she was scrubbing the plate because he wasn't here. He had left a note on the counter, written on a torn piece of receipt paper: "Met someone. Real. Don't need the help anymore. Last check is on the table."