I began separating everything.
Bank accounts.
Insurance.
Lease agreements.
Shared bills.
The small practical details of a life I once thought was built on love.
Every signature felt like cutting another thread from a net I had not realized I was trapped inside.
Some nights, grief came anyway.
Not because I wanted Andrew back, but because I mourned the version of my life I had believed in. I mourned the dinners, the plans, the future children we once joked about, the apartment we decorated together.
But slowly, the grief changed shape.
It stopped feeling like proof that I had lost everything.
It became proof that I had loved honestly.
His betrayal did not make my love foolish.
It only revealed where it had been placed.