The night Flynn asked for a divorce, I sensed he was hiding something. But what I uncovered after deciding to follow him was beyond anything I could have imagined.
The soft evening light filled our apartment, casting warm shades on the walls. I found myself staring at a wedding photo of us—Flynn with his arm around me, his eyes shining with the kind of love I thought would never fade. He had always been my anchor, the calm in my storm, patient, kind, and loving.
For nearly five years, we built what looked like a perfect marriage. Flynn worked long hours as a lawyer, but weekends were ours—filled with small adventures, late-night talks, and lazy mornings watching old shows we both loved. I believed no matter what came, we’d face it together.
But lately, something shifted. Flynn came home later and later. His warmth chilled, and his patience wore thin. He brushed off my concerns, blaming work or socializing, but his excuses felt empty. One quiet night, I finally voiced the worry pressing on my heart.
“Flynn, what’s going on? You’re different,” I said softly.
He sighed, avoiding my gaze. “Work’s tough, Nova. Let’s not do this now.”
“But you’ve been distant for weeks,” I urged gently. “I just want to understand, to help.”
He pulled the blanket over his shoulders, shutting me out. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
That night, I lay awake, haunted by doubts. Had I failed? Was it just stress? Or was he hiding something more?
Tension grew in the days after. Flynn snapped at little things—a book left out, the laundry basket misplaced. I begged him to open up, but he only retreated further. The silence between us screamed louder than words.
Then, one evening, I confronted him. “Flynn, if there’s something wrong, tell me. I can’t keep guessing.”
His eyes flashed with frustration. “I’m exhausted, Nova. Tired of feeling judged every day.”
“Judged?” I whispered, hurt. “I’m not judging you—I’m trying to understand.”
He looked away. “I can’t keep this marriage going. I’m done.”
“Divorce?” The word struck me like a blow.
He left the next morning without answers, packing his bags with vague excuses. I wandered the apartment, desperate for clues.
One night, I found his laptop, forgotten in the rush. Against my better judgment, I checked his messages. There, I discovered conversations with someone saved as “Love”—intimate, filled with plans and affection.
My heart shattered. Flynn hadn’t been at work or with friends. He was with someone else.
I waited outside the café mentioned in the messages, ready to confront him. But the person who walked in with Flynn wasn’t a woman—it was Benji, his best friend.
I watched as they embraced—more than friends. The realization hit me hard: Flynn was in love with Benji.
Everything made sense. The distance, the anger, the late nights—they weren’t about me.
I felt betrayal but also a strange empathy. Flynn wasn’t running from me—he was running from himself.
Days later, I got a message from Flynn, asking to meet. Despite everything, I agreed.
At the park where we once shared quiet moments, he looked worn and full of regret.
“Nova, I’m sorry. I never wanted to hurt you. I was scared to be honest, even with myself,” he said.
“I could have understood,” I whispered.
He admitted he had tried to suppress who he was, hoping to be the husband I deserved. “Benji helped me see I couldn’t keep living a lie.”
We sat in silence, mourning what was lost.
“I wish you’d trusted me,” I said, tears brimming.
“I didn’t know how. It was easier to blame you than face my truth. I’m sorry.”
In the weeks that followed, I packed away memories and let go of the past. Flynn and I spoke occasionally, healing apart but with respect.
When we finalized the divorce, he thanked me quietly. “You helped me more than you know.”
I smiled softly. “I hope you find happiness, Flynn.”
“I wish the same for you. You deserve the best.”
His farewell hug felt distant—like saying goodbye to a stranger who once meant everything.
Flynn and Benji planned to leave town and start fresh. As he walked away, I felt a weight lift. I was free to rebuild, stronger than before.
Though our marriage ended, Flynn’s honesty gave me a gift I hadn’t expected: peace.
For the first time in months, I knew I’d be okay.