My marriage to Héctor ended not with a fight, but with silence. He handed me the divorce papers one evening, and I signed without a word — the love had faded long before.
While packing, he tossed my old pillow at me with a smirk. “Take your comfort with you.” Later, alone, I unzipped it — and found a small wooden box hidden inside, filled with our old love letters and a sapphire necklace he once gave me.
Reading those letters brought tears, not of anger, but of gratitude. Love hadn’t vanished — it had simply changed shape.
In time, I learned to forgive, to paint, to live for myself again. The box now sits on my nightstand — a reminder that sometimes, endings are just beginnings disguised as goodbye.
