I had been the perfect wife for five years, playing the role with precision and grace. I was everything he wanted me to be-the perfect companion, the perfect partner, the perfect image. But the truth was undeniable: he never loved me. His heart, his thoughts, his desires-every ounce of his being was still consumed by her, his first love.
I was just the shadow in the background, the wife who filled the role but never the one he truly craved. The realization hit like a cold slap, and I knew what I had to do. I couldn't live in this hollow illusion any longer. I decided it was time to end the charade, time to move out, to reclaim my own life.
But just a week later, he showed up at my door.
I hadn't expected him to come. Certainly not this soon. And when I opened it, there he was, standing in the doorway like a storm waiting to break-his face flushed, eyes bloodshot with something raw, something desperate.
"Divorce?" His voice was low, thick with something that might have been anger or pain-or both. His gaze pierced through me, a mixture of disbelief and fury. "Say that again."
It wasn't a question. It was a command, a challenge, like he couldn't quite believe what he was hearing, but he wanted me to confirm it. And in the heat of that moment, with the air crackling between us, I knew that nothing would ever be the same again.