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Before I can find either of them, my phone vibrates.

Who could be texting at this hour?

Please don’t let it be my parents. That would mean something’s wrong.

In Romania it’s still the middle of the night—early morning at best. If everything’s fine, they should both be asleep.

I glance at the screen.

A message.

Exhaling quietly, I place my bag on the seat beside me, sit down, and unlock my phone.

Axel: It’s obvious you’re using this whole time to live however you want, doing whatever you please without anyone being able to call you out. But the truth is, you’re a whore, just like all of them. Playing the victim in front of everyone, when in reality you’re just fucking around whenever you feel like it. But things won’t stay this way.

I exit the conversation and lock my phone, waiting for the words to sink in, for some kind of reaction.

But nothing comes.

Nothing except disgust.

Revulsion.

Shame.

Embarrassment.

None of it because of what he said.

But because I stayed with someone like that.

For thirteen years.

Thirteen.

I know it sounds unreal.

I’ve been with him since I was twenty. We were engaged. We talked about getting married, having children… building a home together.

It wasn’t perfect.

It was never perfect.

Too many reconciliations.

Even so, it was a relationship that lasted nearly half my life.

I place my phone face down on the table and open my Kindle, finding the book I started a week ago—back when I still had time for myself.

Reading is my escape whenever my schedule allows it.

Books remind me that life can be different, that it should be different.

I know these stories come from someone’s imagination, but they’re always rooted in truth.

Somewhere in the world, a story like this—maybe not exactly the same—has happened.

And the woman survived.