Golden light filtered through the curtains as I stared at our wedding photo. Flynn had been my anchor—late-night laughter, Sunday walks, whispered plans. But one night, he looked at me like a stranger. “Nova,” he said, avoiding my eyes, “I think I want a divorce.” The word shattered everything. At first, I blamed stress from his job, but the signs were there: late nights, cool touches, kisses turned into pecks. I tried to win him back with dinners, notes, and patience, but only met irritation.

After he left, our apartment felt haunted. Sleepless, I opened his old laptop. Messages appeared—from “Love.” But the next evening, when I followed him to a café, it wasn’t a woman who greeted him. It was Benji, his best friend. Flynn’s tender gaze said everything. He hadn’t left because I wasn’t enough—he left because he could no longer deny who he was.

When we finally met, his apology cracked his voice. “I thought I could be the husband you deserved,” he said, “but hiding was destroying me.” We signed the divorce quietly, both grieving but oddly freed.

I expected emptiness. Instead, I found resilience—therapy, friends, laughter, late-night drives. Flynn’s leaving broke me, but it also set us both free. For the first time, I believed I would be okay.