Page 4 of Letting Go

I remember the first time I wore it. I was freezing, and Mike wrapped it around me, all close and warm and... God, he smelled like everything good in the world. He didn’t care that it was old, that it had that stupid logo on the back. He just held me, like it meant something. Like we meant something. And now, here’s Kiera, wearing it, acting like it was hers from the start.

That hollow feeling creeps in again.

“Stop,” I mutter under my breath, slapping my hand against the wheel. I’m spiralling again, getting lost in shit that doesn’t matter.

But it does matter, doesn’t it? Everything matters. She matters.

I glance down at the hoodie, crumpled in my lap. It feels like something stolen. The way she just took it without asking, without care. And I…I…I let her. Like it was nothing. Like I was nothing.

I let out a shaky breath and slam my hand on the steering wheel again.

It’s just a damn hoodie.

It’s not just a hoodie.

God, I can feel it now, like something inside me has been unravelling for months, and I just refused to look at it. The way he’d come home late, his excuses slithering out of his mouth like slick oil. The way he looked at me sometimes, like I wasn’t really there, like I was just... background noise. I buried my head inwork, told myself that if I just kept busy, if I just kept pushing through, I wouldn’t have to deal with the fact that my husband, the man I chose, was slipping through my fingers like sand.

But now, here I am, sitting in this stupid car with his hoodie in my lap and the truth punching me in the gut. I’d told myself I was being paranoid. Told myself I was just tired, just stressed. But no. It’s like the fog’s finally lifted, and I can see everything clearly now, the missed calls, the late nights, the secretive texts. The way he’s been distant for so long, and I kept telling myself it was just... life.

But now, I don’t have work to hide behind. Now, I’m forced to see what I’ve been ignoring. And I hate myself for it.

I hate myself for letting it get this far.

The hoodie isn’t just a hoodie. It’s a symbol. Of everything I should’ve noticed. Of everything that slipped right past me while I was too busy being the wife I thought I was supposed to be.

I can hear Kiera’s voice in my head now, all casual, like she didn’t just throw gasoline on the fire. "For Mike?" she asked, her tone sharp, but sweet. Like she knew something I didn’t. Like maybe she knew what I was only just starting to piece together.

I can’t pretend anymore. Not with the way my heart’s beating like it’s trying to escape my chest, not with the way I feel like I’m drowning in this mess of my own making.

I don’t know what’s worse: knowing or not knowing. But I think I already know.

My husband is cheating on me.

Chapter 3

When I walk in the door, Mike’s sitting on the couch, legs casually sprawled like he owns the world, beer in one hand, tapping the other against the armrest like he’s in some chilled-out domestic commercial. The picture-perfect, laid-back husband. Except it doesn’t feel right. Nothing feels right anymore.

He looks up when I close the door, eyebrows drawn together in a way that would’ve once made me melt. Now it just makes my stomach twist.

“Hey,” he says softly, like he’s been waiting for me. “Came home early. You sounded bad on the phone. Everything okay?”

Everything okay? I can’t even remember the last time I felt okay. But I nod and smile, tight, mechanical. Like my face knows the routine even if my heart forgot the choreography. I brush past him and head to the kitchen, because I need a barrier. A counter. A second to breathe.

My head is a blender, and someone left the lid off. Kiera. The hoodie. The quiet avalanche of things I’ve been ignoring because they were too big to name. The lies Mike tells like they’re throw pillows, small, soft, and meant to make things look better than they are.

“I’m fine,” I say, grabbing a glass, filling it with water. My voice is too clipped. Too cold. “Just… work stuff. A deal went bad, and they tried to pin it on me. So, I quit.”

He sits up straighter. “What exactly happened?”

His voice is laced with something that’s trying to pass for concern, but there’s a sharpness underneath. Like he’s digging for something. I cross my arms over my chest, like I can physically keep everything in.

“I can’t say,” I tell him. “Confidentiality. You know how it is.”

He nods, slowly, like he’s pretending to get it. “Right. Sure. But hey, if you ever wanna talk about it, I’m here for you.”

And God, for half a second, I want to believe him. I want to believe that his eyes really mean it, that he’s the guy who used to hold my face in his hands like I was breakable and priceless. But something inside me clenches. Because it’s too much. The softness. The timing. The careful tone. It all feels like a performance I’ve seen before, like he’s overcompensating.

He comes around the counter and wraps his arms around me, pulling me in like I’m something precious. And my body wants to believe it. But my brain, my gut, won’t shut up. I can’t relax into it. I feel stiff, fake, like I’m playing a role in someone else’s fantasy.

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