The next day, I found myself at a small cafe across from the courthouse, scanning through pages of legal jargon that seemed designed to confuse rather than clarify. I needed to know where I stood legally, and the stack of papers in front of me was supposed to be some kind of roadmap. It was all there: the lease agreement, the joint bank statements, even the insurance policies. “These are just the basics,” the lawyer had told me, handing over the folder with a perfunctory nod. “We’ll need to go through everything.” The weight of the folder felt heavy in my hands, much like the realization that this was my life now—a series of documents and signatures that would determine the dismantling of what I had built with him.

As I sat there, the noise of the cafe faded into the background, replaced by the steady hum of my own thoughts. I reached for my phone, hesitating before opening the last text he had sent me the morning of the betrayal. It was a simple message, “Love you,” sent at 9:15 AM. The timestamp seemed to mock me now, a reminder of how little I had known. I saved the message, evidence for some future confrontation I couldn’t yet foresee.

Across the table, the waitress placed a cup of coffee in front of me with a small smile. “Looks like you’ve got a lot on your plate,” she said, gesturing to the papers. “Yeah, you could say that,” I replied, offering a weak smile in return. Her words were simple, but they grounded me in that moment, reminding me that life outside this mess continued on. I took a sip of the coffee, its warmth steadying my resolve. I had a lot to sort through, both emotionally and legally. This was only the beginning.

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