I was heading towards my room—my husband’s room—when a sound stopped me in my tracks. Soft, broken cries… his cries. My hand trembled as I reached for the door. With a push, it swung open, the frame scraping against the wall. Something inside my chest twisted, a cold, hollow ache. I told myself it didn’t matter, that I shouldn’t care, that no amount of pain could touch me—but it did. There he was, on his knees, clutching a photograph to his chest as if it were the only lifeline left in the world. His tears fell freely, streaking his face, shaking him with grief I had never seen before. My heart stuttered cause i know the picture—it belonged to none other than his love… his first love. I wanted to scream, to run, to throw the photo away, to tell him he had no right to feel like this anymore. But even as anger surged through me, there was a strange pull, a helpless ache that rooted me to the spot. For the first time, I saw the man I thought I knew unravel in front of me, and something inside me shifted.