The night Flynn asked for a divorce, I sensed something was terribly wrong. He’d become withdrawn—coming home late, speaking curtly, losing his patience over little things. Our once warm, effortless marriage had fallen apart piece by piece, and I couldn’t understand why. Not until I found his laptop.
Driven by desperation, I opened it. What I saw devastated me: a string of messages from someone saved as “Love.” But the real heartbreak came later, when I followed him to a café and saw who he was meeting—Benji, his best friend.
It wasn’t just an affair. Flynn was in love—with a man.
Suddenly, everything clicked. The distance, the tension, the quiet sorrow—he hadn’t been rejecting me. He’d been hiding himself.
When he reached out for closure, we met one last time. There were tears, confessions, and long-overdue honesty. He apologized, and I told him I could have faced the truth—if only he’d trusted me with it.
As Flynn walked away to begin his new life with Benji, I felt an unexpected calm. Our marriage had ended, but I wasn’t destroyed. I was healing—stronger, wiser, and finally free to start again.
