It was supposed to be the kind of trip that heals everything — a five-star resort by the sea, warm air drifting through open balconies, and the soft promise that maybe, after all the quiet distance and late-night arguments, we could find our way back to each other.
I’d packed sundresses, his favorite cologne, and hope — fragile but still alive. It was our anniversary. Twelve years of marriage, a few storms survived, and the feeling that perhaps time away would remind us who we once were.
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