With trembling hands, I placed the phone back exactly where it had been.She didn't move.She didn't suspect a thing.I returned to bed, lying beside her as if nothing had happened.
But inside me, something had died.
I stared at the ceiling for hours, feeling the weight of a truth that crushed every memory, every promise, every dream we had ever built.It felt as if the entire marriage — all those years — were collapsing inside my chest, brick by brick.
And I couldn't stop it.
The following days passed in a fog.
I went to work.I functioned.But I wasn't living — I was planning.
Quietly, methodically, painfully.
I spoke to my parents first.Sat them down and told the truth, or at least enough of it.
"I need a place to stay for a while."
They didn't ask why.They didn't demand explanations.
They simply opened the door.
That simple act of love almost broke me again.
Then began the silent withdrawal.
Every day, after leaving work, I drove to my parents' house with something small — clothes, documents, a tool, a personal item.Never too much at once.Never enough to draw attention.
When she went out, I grabbed a little more.
Piece by piece, I erased my existence from that home.
What hurt the most wasn't the betrayal — it was how easy it was.
She didn't notice.Not the coldness in my voice.Not the distance in my eyes.Not the silence between us.
Sometimes, I wondered if she even cared.Or if she was so deeply involved with him that my absence was nothing more than background noise.
And every time she smiled at her phone…
Every time she turned away while typing…
Every time she laughed at a message she didn't explain…
something inside me burned.
A quiet fire.A controlled fire.The kind that destroys without ever exploding.
But I stayed calm.
Because explosions destroy everything at once.
And I wanted a clean exit.
A silent one.
A final one.