I almost cried then.
Not because happiness was dramatic.
Because it was quiet.
Because it had arrived without begging, without proving, without shrinking myself into a shape someone else could tolerate.
That night, I walked home along the river. The city lights trembled on the water. My phone buzzed once.
An email.
From Mason.
The subject line said: I’m sorry.
I didn’t open it.
Maybe the apology was real. Maybe it wasn’t. Maybe he had finally learned the cost of contempt. Maybe he only missed the woman who used to absorb the consequences for him.
It no longer mattered.
I deleted the email before crossing the bridge.
Then I stopped in the middle, leaned against the railing, and looked at the city I had chosen.
A year earlier, my husband had told me to go to hell because I dared to object to his ex-girlfriend touching what was supposed to be mine.
So I went somewhere else instead.
I went to Singapore.
I went to freedom.
I went back to myself.
THE END
