Golden light filtered through curtains as I stared at a photo of Flynn and me on our wedding day, his smile once my anchor. After five years of love and routines, he said, “I think I want a divorce,” shattering our life without explanation.
The signs were there: late nights, forgotten dinners, his warmth fading. I tried to fix us—cooking his favorites, leaving notes—but he grew distant, snapping over small things. After he left, I found messages on his laptop to “Love,” filled with tender words he no longer shared with me.
Desperate, I watched him at our old café, expecting another woman. Instead, I saw Benji, his college friend. Their lingering embrace revealed the truth: Flynn hadn’t left for someone else but because he’d hidden his true self.
Days later, he explained, “I couldn’t keep pretending. I’m sorry.” I grieved our lost future but understood his struggle. We signed divorce papers quietly, parting with tears and mutual wishes for happiness.
Therapy and friends helped me heal. One night, I saw resilience in the mirror, not abandonment. Flynn’s leaving broke me, but it freed us both. For the first time, I knew I’d be okay.
