The night Flynn asked for a divorce, I knew something was wrong. His warmth had faded, his patience worn thin. He blamed work stress, but I felt the distance growing between us. Then, he said it—”I think I want a divorce.” Days later, I found his old laptop and the truth: messages to someone saved as “Love.” My heart shattered as I read their plans to meet at a café—the same one Flynn and I used to visit. I had to see for myself.
Waiting outside, I saw Flynn enter, his face alight with anticipation. But the person he met wasn’t a woman. It was Benji—his best friend. They embraced with a love I hadn’t seen in months. Everything made sense. The late nights, the distance, the tension. He had been running from himself. Days later, he reached out. When we met, he apologized, admitting he hadn’t even understood it himself.
I grieved, but in time, I found peace. As Flynn and Benji left to start a new life, I let go of the past. He had set us both free. And for the first time in months, I knew—I would be okay.
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