The judge's voice cut through the silence like a blade, her words final and unyielding. "The divorce is hereby finalized. Both parties are free to go their separate ways."
Separate ways. The words echoed in my mind as a cold fog of finality settled over me. I should have felt relieved, freed from the agony of a broken marriage, but all I could feel was the gnawing ache in my chest. Betrayed. Broken. For years, I had given Ethan everything-my heart, my trust, my soul. And he had destroyed it all with his infidelity.
The room buzzed with the shuffle of papers, the scratch of pens, and the sound of people standing to leave. I remained seated, unable to move, numb to it all. I couldn't even look at him. I couldn't bear it. Once, he'd been my entire world. Now, he was nothing more than a memory I desperately wanted to erase.
Blinking back tears, I finally forced myself to stand. With one last, lingering glance at the man who had promised to love me forever, I turned and walked out of the courtroom. My heels clicked loudly against the marble floor, echoing through the vast, empty hall. Each step felt heavier than the last, like I was leaving a piece of myself behind. My life, as I had known it, was over.
When I reached the courthouse steps, I finally allowed myself to breathe. The crisp air hit my lungs, but the relief was fleeting. What now? How was I supposed to rebuild after everything I'd lost? I didn't have answers, but I knew one thing: I needed to feel something-anything-to drown out the suffocating emptiness.
Hours later, I found myself at a bar, the kind of place I rarely frequented. The neon lights buzzed above me, casting an ethereal glow over the crowded room. I didn't care that I didn't belong here. I just wanted to disappear, to lose myself in the noise, the anonymity, the chaos of it all.
I slid onto a stool at the bar, ordering a glass of wine with shaky hands. My reflection in the mirror behind the bar caught my attention, and I almost didn't recognize the woman staring back. My red-rimmed eyes, disheveled hair, and smudged makeup told a story I didn't want to face.
When the bartender placed the wine in front of me, I took a long sip, the sharp taste burning my throat. It didn't help. It didn't dull the ache. But it was a distraction.
That's when I noticed him.
He sat a few stools down, his broad shoulders relaxed, his presence magnetic without being overbearing. Dark hair, a chiseled jaw, and piercing eyes that seemed to see everything-even though he wasn't looking my way. For reasons I couldn't explain, I couldn't look away.
Our eyes met briefly in the mirror, and I quickly averted my gaze, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. But when I stole another glance, he was still looking. And then he smiled-a subtle, almost imperceptible curve of his lips, but enough to make my heart skip.
"Long night?" His voice broke through the noise, deep and smooth, with a hint of amusement.
I turned to face him fully, forcing a small, polite smile. "You could say that."
"Divorce?" he asked, his tone gentle but probing.
My smile faltered, and I stared down at my wine glass. How could he possibly know? "What gave it away?"
"Call it a gift," he said with a shrug, his expression unreadable. "But it's written all over you."
The fact he didn't say " your file on the table gave it away" was funny.
I don't mind rolling with his own make out excuse.
A bitter laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. "You're not the first person to tell me that," I murmured.
His gaze softened, and he leaned in slightly. "For what it's worth, you're not alone."
For reasons I couldn't explain, his words struck a chord. There was no pity in his voice, no judgment. Just... understanding. It was comforting in a way I hadn't expected.
I can't remember the last time I had a very deep conversation with someone and felt relaxed.
I don't mind doing it often.
We talked for hours after that. At some point, the conversation shifted from casual small talk to something deeper. I didn't even realize when it happened, but it didn't matter. For the first time in weeks, I felt alive.
His name was Daniel, and there was a calm, steady presence about him that put me at ease. One drink turned into another, and before I knew it, he was guiding me out of the bar, his arm steadying me as I stumbled slightly.
We ended up at his apartment-a quiet, minimalistic space that mirrored the stillness I'd been craving. For a few fleeting hours, the weight of the world lifted. Nothing mattered-not the divorce, not Ethan, not the loneliness that had consumed me.
When morning came, reality returned with a vengeance. As sunlight streamed through the blinds, guilt gnawed at me. I glanced at Daniel, still asleep beside me, his features softened in slumber. He looked peaceful, but I felt anything but.
Quietly, I slipped out of bed and dressed. This wasn't me. This couldn't be me. This was just a mistake, a momentary escape. It didn't mean anything. It couldn't.
I left his apartment without looking back, stepping into the bustling city as it woke around me. The world moved on, indifferent to the chaos inside me. As I walked down the street, I vowed to bury this moment, to lock it away with all the other regrets.
This was just one night. It wouldn't define me. It couldn't.