The next morning, he kissed me goodbye like everything was fine. I cried after he left — not because he cheated, but because some part of me had hoped I was wrong.
That afternoon, I called Mira, an old college friend turned lawyer.
I didn’t answer. Not yet.
But I knew.
Later that week, I made a dinner reservation. Our first anniversary spot. I told him I wanted to “reconnect.” He lit up like a man who believed he’d been forgiven.
I wore red. Curled my hair. Let him think he was winning.
Over appetizers, I slid a photo across the table.
Grainy. Dim.
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