The Night I Finally Chose Myself

From that moment on, I said nothing.

I watched.

Passwords changed. Phones never left his pocket. He suddenly cared a lot about fitness — and even more about long evenings “helping friends.”

So I started collecting the truth.

Small details, like crumbs.

Dates. Receipts. Habits.

I didn’t confront him. Not yet. I wasn’t ready for excuses. I wanted evidence that couldn’t be denied.

Then one evening, he said he was going to Milo’s to “help mount a TV.”

But Milo — poor Milo — had just posted sun-drenched photos from Santorini.

So I followed. Quietly. Three cars behind.

He pulled into a generic apartment complex, buzzed in, and disappeared behind a second-story light.

I didn’t knock.

I didn’t need to.

The Breaking Point

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