Free.

That word felt wrong.

There was no freedom in what he had done. Only lies.

Only manipulation.

He spoke about a new life, a new beginning, a future where we would never struggle again. He talked like everything could still be fixed, like I would simply understand.

But all I could see was the funeral.

The coffin.

The grief.

Me, standing alone in a wedding dress that had turned into mourning clothes in a matter of hours.

“You didn’t do this for us,” I said quietly. “You did it for yourself.”

He didn’t deny it. Not really.

That was the moment something shifted inside me.

I reached into my bag, turned on my phone without him noticing, and let him keep talking. Explaining. Justifying. Confessing.

By the time he realized what was happening, it was too late.

Other passengers had started listening too. Faces turned toward us, expressions shifting from confusion to shock.

The bus slowed.

I stood up.

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