Found peace in simplicity.

Then one day, at the store, I saw Dante.
High school friend. Cinnamon bread and almond milk in his cart.

We grabbed coffee. Then lunch.
He listened.
He made me laugh.

I wasn’t chasing romance.
Just air.

News trickled back: Clara was pregnant.
He reached out.
“I miss you.”
“It wasn’t real.”
“I made a mistake.”

I didn’t answer for weeks. Then I did.

Turns out the baby wasn’t his.
Clara messaged me too.
Apologized.
Said he never told her he was married.

I wrote back:

“You’re not the enemy.
You’re just another person he hurt.
I hope you heal.”

Because sometimes, the other woman is just collateral—
not a villain, but a victim of the same story.

That night—those panties?
They weren’t just lingerie.
They were the moment I woke up.

Now?
I live alone.
I decorate freely.
I breathe easy.

Dante and I are careful.
His daughter is sunshine.
We make pancakes on Sundays.
We laugh.
We rest.

One night, Mira and I sat on my balcony. She asked:

“Do you wish you’d called him out sooner?”

I thought for a moment.

“No.
Because if I had, he’d have spun a story.
That night gave me space to see clearly.”

Sometimes the loudest decisions are made in silence.
And the strongest move is simply walking away.

Healing isn’t dramatic.
It’s choosing to stop settling for crumbs—
and realizing you’re worthy of the whole damn cake.