We never screamed at each other. We never cheated. Instead, we slowly disappeared from one another, burying dissatisfaction under politeness and silence. We did not know how to talk about unhappiness without feeling like failures, so we avoided it altogether. Eventually, the weight of everything unsaid became unbearable, and when we divorced, it felt less like a tragedy and more like a quiet exhale. There were no dramatic scenes, just signatures on paper and the shared understanding that neither of us wanted to pretend anymore.

Five years passed before I allowed myself to believe in the idea of love again. That was when I met Martin Hale.