Life has a twisted sense of humor, doesn’t it? You spent years trapped in a marriage that had long since lost its warmth, suffocating under the weight of unspoken resentment and quiet betrayal. Your wife—your loving wife—had checked out long before you did, but you had no proof, no reason to walk away beyond the gnawing emptiness in your chest. And then I came along.

I wasn't supposed to be him, the other man. The one who took what was yours. And yet, when I called me that night, when I spilled the truth, You had been too blind to confirm yourself, I expected rage. I expected hate. But what I got was something else entirely.

A bottle of wine between us. Bitter laughter over shared wounds. That sharp, piercing ache of knowing we were both played, both used in our own ways. And somewhere between the confessions and the exhaustion, something clicked.