But I went. Dressed in what I hoped projected effortless confidence, I stepped into the brightly lit hall. The hum of unfamiliar chatter was a thin veil over my racing heart.
I scanned the room, every muscle tensed, bracing for the inevitable. And then I saw him. Across the room, framed by a cluster of laughing faces, older, yes, but still recognizable.
Not the carefree, vibrant man I’d loved with every fiber of my being. Was that pity I felt? No, it couldn’t be.
Not after what he did. My eyes continued their search, dreading the next inevitable sighting. And there she was.
Sitting alone at a table near the back, nursing a drink. Her. The woman who, in one cruel night, had become the living embodiment of my greatest betrayal.
She didn’t look triumphant, didn’t have the smug aura I’d always imagined. She looked… small. Quiet.
The sight didn’t ignite the usual searing rage. Just a dull ache. I tried to blend in, to talk, to laugh, to pretend I wasn’t constantly aware of his presence, the way his voice occasionally carried over the din.
But then, he was walking towards me. My blood ran cold. This was it.
The confrontation I’d avoided for a decade. Every nerve ending screamed. He stopped a few feet away, his gaze direct, earnest.
“Hey,” he mumbled, his voice hoarse. “Can we talk for a minute?”
He took a deep breath. “Everything. I’m so sorry.Continue reading…
