The night Flynn asked for a divorce, I knew something was wrong. He was hiding something. I could feel it in my bones. But nothing, absolutely nothing, could have prepared me for what I would discover when I decided to follow him.
The evening light streamed through the windows of our apartment, casting a warm golden glow. I stood frozen in front of our wedding photo, my fingers tracing the edge of the frame. There we were—Flynn and me, smiling, wrapped in each other’s arms, lost in the magic of that perfect day. Back then, I believed that love was forever. That he would always be my rock, my safe place.
For nearly five years, we built a life together. On the outside, it looked perfect. Flynn was a hardworking lawyer, dedicated and determined. He worked long hours, but he always made time for me. Our weekends were sacred—lazy mornings in bed, spontaneous road trips, late-night movies with popcorn.
But then, everything changed.
Flynn started coming home late. He became distant, his warmth replaced by cold indifference. At first, I tried to ignore it, blaming it on stress from work. But his excuses felt hollow. The man who once held my hand at every opportunity barely looked at me anymore. And that night, as we lay in silence, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“Flynn, is something wrong? You’ve been acting so… different lately,” I asked softly, turning to face him.
He let out a heavy sigh, refusing to meet my eyes. “Work’s been tough, Nova. Can we not do this right now?”
I swallowed hard, feeling a lump rise in my throat. “It’s not just work. You barely talk to me anymore. I just want to help—”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” he cut me off, turning his back to me.
That was the moment I knew. Something was very, very wrong.
The following weeks were a blur of tension and unspoken words. Flynn snapped at me over the smallest things.
“Why do you always leave your books everywhere?” he muttered one evening, glaring at the coffee table.
“It’s just one book, Flynn,” I said, caught off guard. “I’ll move it.”
The next night, it was something else.
“Why is the laundry basket still in the hallway?”
I took a deep breath, fighting the frustration bubbling inside me. “Flynn, what is going on? You’re always angry. Please, just talk to me.”
He shook his head, avoiding my gaze. And that’s when I realized—he wasn’t just distant. He was pulling away.
Then, one Friday night, he came home and dropped a bombshell.
“Nova, I can’t do this anymore,” he said, his voice tired, detached.
“What do you mean?” My heart pounded in my chest.
He ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. “This marriage… I can’t keep pretending. I want a divorce.”
The word sliced through me like a knife.
“A divorce? Just like that?” My voice shook, my world crumbling around me.
He didn’t offer any further explanation. The next morning, he packed a bag and left. No goodbyes, no promises to work things out. Just… gone.
For days, I wandered around our empty apartment, searching for answers. Then, one evening, my eyes landed on his old laptop sitting on a shelf. He must have forgotten it in his hurry to leave.
My hands trembled as I opened it. I knew it was wrong, but desperation pushed me forward.
And then, I found it.
A string of messages. A contact saved as “Love.”
My breath hitched as I clicked on the chat. My heart pounded with each line I read. The messages were affectionate, filled with inside jokes and whispered promises. Flynn hadn’t been working late. He hadn’t just been out with friends.
He had been with someone else.
My stomach twisted with heartbreak. And then, I saw it. A message about a meet-up at a quiet little café—the same place where Flynn and I used to go every Friday.
“Can’t wait to see you tomorrow. 7 p.m. Same place. Don’t keep me waiting, Love.”
My hands clenched into fists. I needed to know who this “Love” was. I needed to see it with my own eyes.
The next evening, I sat parked across from the café, my heart hammering against my ribs. I watched as Flynn walked inside, looking around, a spark of anticipation in his eyes that I hadn’t seen in months.
And then… someone else walked in.
My breath caught in my throat.
It wasn’t a woman.
It was Benji. Flynn’s best friend.
Shock coursed through me as I watched them. The way Flynn’s face lit up. The way Benji smiled at him. And then, they embraced—a touch that was far more than just friendship. It was love.
I felt my world tilt, my mind struggling to grasp what I was seeing. This wasn’t just an affair. It was something deeper. Flynn had left me… for Benji.
For days, I walked through life in a daze, drowning in confusion and heartbreak. Then, out of nowhere, Flynn messaged me.
“Nova, can we meet? I owe you an explanation.”
Despite everything, I agreed.
We met at the park where we used to take long walks, back when we were happy. He approached slowly, his face heavy with regret.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I never meant to hurt you.”
I swallowed, fighting back tears. “Why didn’t you just tell me?” My voice cracked. “I would have understood.”
He looked away, shame flickering in his eyes. “I didn’t understand it myself. I thought I could be the husband you deserved. But hiding who I was… it was killing me.”
For the first time, I saw the pain he had been carrying. The weight of his secret. The fear of hurting me.
And suddenly, I realized… this wasn’t about me. Flynn had been running from himself. And in doing so, he had run from me too.
The weeks that followed were filled with slow healing. I packed up our apartment, erasing the pieces of our past. Each day, the pain loosened its grip, making way for something unexpected—peace.
Flynn and I remained in touch, but our paths were now separate. As we finalized the divorce, he looked at me one last time, his eyes filled with gratitude.
“Thank you, Nova,” he whispered. “For everything.”
I gave him a small smile. “I hope you find happiness, Flynn.”
“And I hope you find someone who loves you the way you deserve.”
As he walked away, a strange lightness filled my chest. I had loved him, but now, I was free. And for the first time in months, I knew I would be okay.