Over the next few weeks, things unraveled fast. Apparently, they’d tried dating after he left me. Tried being the key word.
She dumped him after a month. Said he was charming when it was secret, but insecure and controlling when things got real. “I saw a side of him I’d never seen,” she later told me.
“I was scared.”
Part of me felt vindicated. The other part felt sick—because that meant I was married to that version for years and didn’t see it. Or maybe didn’t want to.
In a weird twist of fate, I started seeing a therapist—someone Nicolette used to work with. Not on purpose. Just dumb luck.
But it helped. Talking out the mess. The buried guilt.
The shame of feeling like a fool. Therapy cracked something open. I realized I’d been making excuses for my ex for years.
His cold moods. The silent treatment. The way he’d disappear for “work trips” that always seemed vague.
I thought I had to be better, prettier, more interesting. Turns out, I just had to leave. Or at least, he had to.
One year later, I was in a completely different place. I’d moved across town, started volunteering at a shelter, and was taking night classes for design—something I shelved after college because “he didn’t think it’d lead anywhere.”
I even got my first paid gig redesigning a nursery for a single mom who’d aged out of foster care. I cried in my car after that job.
Not because of the check—but because someone trusted me to help them build a home. As for Nicolette—we’re… trying. Slowly.
She sends photos sometimes of her hikes or paintings she’s doing now that she quit her finance job. Says she’s learning to live slower. She’s not dating anyone.
Says she needs to know herself before she tries again. We met for coffee six months after it all exploded. I wasn’t sure if I’d hug her or slap her.
But I hugged her. I don’t know if we’ll ever be like before. But I believe people can change when they own their mess.
And my ex? He called once. I didn’t pick up.
But I did see him last week. Randomly. At a bookstore of all places.
He looked older. Tired. He saw me, too.
Hesitated. Then walked up. “Hey,” he said.
I nodded. “You look good,” he added, a little too rehearsed. I smiled.
“I am.”
We stood there for a second too long. He shifted. “I, uh… just wanted to say sorry.
For how I handled everything.”
I nodded again. “Thanks. But that apology’s a little late for me.
Hope you find peace.”
And then I turned and walked away. Not out of spite—but because I was free. For real this time.
See, pain doesn’t always come with closure. Sometimes you have to give it to yourself. What happened between him and Nicolette?
That was on them. What I did with the fallout? That was on me.
And I chose to rise. So if you’re reading this, sitting in your own mess, wondering how you’ll survive a betrayal that cracked you open—let me say this:
You will. You’ll cry in grocery store aisles.
You’ll eat toast for dinner more nights than you care to admit. You’ll stalk their socials and hate yourself for it. But you’ll get through.
One decision at a time. One boundary at a time. And maybe, just maybe, you’ll wake up one morning, open the curtains, and realize:
You don’t need them to feel whole anymore.
