“Baby, it’s been 365 days since you left. I miss you so much I can’t sleep.”
“Baby, you once said you wanted a child who looked like both of us. If you were still here, our baby would already be two years old.”
“…”
I clicked on his profile picture—it was our high school graduation photo.
He was kissing me on the cheek, and I was laughing brightly.
The memory suddenly came alive again.
That day, he whispered in my ear:
“Sophia, don’t keep smiling at me like that. I’m afraid I won’t be able to resist kissing you.”
It was one of the rare times he had spoken sweetly, making me laugh until my eyes curved.
My eyes dropped lower. His username read: Daniel Hughes (Widowed).
Anyone who saw those posts would believe I was long gone, and that he was still mourning me day and night.
And I faintly remembered why.
During our wedding vows, he had said that for us there would never be divorce—only death.
The irony was that in the end, he was the one who coldly filed for divorce.
At that time, he and Emily Brooks were no longer even hiding.
They wore childish couple’s outfits, holding hands as they strolled down the streets.
On weekends, they went hiking and camping, lying under the stars to talk about the universe.
He took her overseas to see her favorite singer’s concert, kissing her in the front row as the camera projected them onto the big screen.
That night, Emily updated her Instagram:
“I want starlight and sunlight, I want the world to surrender, but most of all, I want you by my side.”
The photo showed two hands tightly intertwined.
Those long, pale fingers with clean knuckles—I recognized them instantly as Daniel’s.
The next day, Emily sent me a video of them kissing passionately.
She was young and bold, utterly unashamed. She thought she had done nothing wrong.
“Sophia, I’m just dating Daniel. It won’t affect your marriage at all.”
“My love for him is no less than yours. For him, I don’t even need a title.”
That night, I sat in the study all alone until dawn, unable to swallow the bitterness stuck in my throat.
At sunrise, I stormed into the bedroom, eyes red, and confronted Daniel.
“How far have you gone with her?”
He buttoned his shirt slowly, face blank.
“You’re overthinking. It’s just fun between colleagues. I know my boundaries.”
The color drained from my lips, like punching into cotton—strength wasted, with nowhere to go.
Numb, I went to prepare breakfast: avocado toast with black coffee.