When I first sensed Michael drifting away, I told myself it was just stress—work, the coming baby, life piling up. I didn’t want to face the thought that something deeper was unraveling between us. Seeking comfort, I turned to Anna, my best friend since high school—the one person I trusted with everything.
When I shared my worries, she soothed me with gentle words. “You’re overthinking, Helena. He loves you. It’s just stress.” I wanted to believe her. But as days passed, the silence between Michael and me grew heavy. He avoided my gaze, brushed past me without a word, and spent long nights at work or scrolling on his phone. Conversations became strained, his answers short and distant.
At night, I’d wake to find him turned away, his back a cold wall separating us. Pregnant and exhausted, I felt alone in a marriage that once felt safe. I tried harder—planning dinners, reaching out, asking him to talk—but the more I tried, the further he slipped away.
One restless night, I called Anna in tears. “It feels like he’s already gone,” I whispered.
“Hel, it’s nothing. Just stress,” she said softly. But something in her tone felt hollow.
Then came the day my world collapsed—the miscarriage. I woke with a dull ache, and by evening, I was at the hospital, numb and terrified. The doctor’s words shattered me: no heartbeat. No baby. Grief crushed me, but Michael remained detached, sitting beside me like a stranger. No touch, no comfort, no tears.
Weeks later, he finally spoke the words I dreaded: “I’m not happy anymore, Helena.”
Just like that, five years of marriage dissolved into silence. He packed his bags and left—and with him, Anna disappeared too.
At first, she had been my lifeline, my shoulder through the pain. But soon, she was gone—no calls, no messages, and when I tried reaching out, I found I was blocked everywhere.
It wasn’t until my mother called one evening that I learned the truth. With trembling hands, I opened the link she sent—and what I saw made my heart stop…
