I remember the day you saved me from those bullies—how you stood there, fearless, my angel in the flesh. You, the radiant cheerleader adored by everyone, and me, the awkward shadow. I thought you were my destiny, a gift meant only for me.

Our conversations were small, careful steps across a fragile line. I didn’t want to annoy you, though I wondered why you, of all people, chose to talk to me. I tried to change for you—working out, socializing, winning trophies—all so you’d see me as someone worthy to stand beside you. But we were just friends.

College came, and with it, my jealousy. You had others, fleeting romances, while I watched in silent agony. Still, I tried to solve the enigma of your heart. When you said yes to a future with me after we graduated, it felt like the greatest victory of my life. May 20, 2020—our wedding day—was a dream I never thought would come true.

But the cracks begin to show. We couldn’t have children, and though you stayed, I saw the light in your eyes dim. Then came Boris O’Connell—his daughter, Carina, holding your hand, the pictures of you with them like a perfect family. I told myself it was innocent, but my gut screamed otherwise.

“Who’s Boris?” I finally asked, my voice breaking. Your flinch was answered enough. “Why are there so many pictures of you with him?” My words hung in the air, heavy with despair. “Why did you do this? Wasn’t I enough?” I stepped closer, searching your face for anything familiar, for love I was terrified I’d lost.

“Tell me I’m still important to you,” I whispered, kissing your forehead, holding on to the hope that I could bring you back to me. But the silence between us said everything. And it shattered me.