Divorced But Never Letting Go

When i first met Micheal Williams, it wasn't love at first sight. It was something else, an ache in the chest, a curious pull towards someone who looked too good to be true. He was all charm and chivalry, the kind of man who held doors open and actually listened when you spoke. we were classmates at the university, thrown together during a research project neither of us wanted. Our banter came easily, our laughter even moreso.

Weeks turned to months. We sat on library floors eating cold samosas, sharing dreams, and dodging real responsibilities. I told him i wanted to be a writer. He said he wanted to make a difference something vague about international diplomacy and justice. It sounded noble.

He had eyes that could see through you, but never made you feel naked. I crushed on him hard, so did everyother girl, but somehow, he only looked at me. One night while working late on our project he walked me to my dorm. There was a silence, the kind that holds it's breath before something begins. Then he kissed me.

lt was soft, certain, dangerous.

And just like that, i fell.

The first year of our relationship felt like a dream i didn't want to wake from. Michael was everything: attentive gentle and quietly brilliant. He made tea just the way i like it, ginger-heavy, no sugar. He remembered the little things, like how I hated the smell of a wet paint or how I'd cry watching animal rescue videos.

He made me feel seen. Our friends joked that we were already married. We didn't rush things, but the future always hovered like a promise in his eyes. I imagined growing old with him, reading books on a porch somewhere, our children playing in the yard. But looking back now, there were moments small ones, that didn't quite fit.

Once, i caught him staring at a news report about a government raid in Eastern Europe. His expression turned to stone. when i asked what was wrong, he smiled too quickly and changed the channel.

Another time, a man approached us at a coffee shop and addressed him in a language i didn't recognize. Michael's reaction was sharp, dismissive, cold, he brushed it off as mistaken identity

I believed him. Love does that, it teaches you to explain away what should raise as questions

we graduated, we moved in together, we got engaged on a beach at sunset - the kind of cliché you tell stories but with him, it felt real.

I said yes, even though part of me felt like i didn't know everything. Because sometimes love isn't about knowing it's about trusting.

we got married under an acacia tree in Nairobi. The sun was bold, the sky a perfect blue. Friends and family danced until their feet hurt, and i remember thinking : this is what happiness is supposed to feel like.

Michael looked like he had stepped out of a dream, black tux, a calm smile that only deepened when he looked at me. i wore a cream gown passed down from my mother and i swore i felt her blessings in the wind that danced through my veil.

His vows were simple, honest . I had memorized every word, yet they still made me cry .

" i promise to never let a day go by without reminding you how much i love you", he said.

"And to always protect you, even from myself".

At the time, it sounded poetic.

Now i wonder if it was a warning.

After the wedding, we honeymooned on Lamu island. It was a paradise - white sands, fragrant spices, a horizon that stretched forever . He taught me how to sail, i taught him how to let go.

or so i thought.

sometimes he disappeared for hours, saying he was going for walks or getting supplies. Once he came back with a bruised knuckle and no explanation. I laughed it off, made love to him under the stars, and believed every lie he told with those beautiful lips.

He always made the world seem safe.

Until one night, as he slept beside me, i caught sight of a scar on his shoulder, clean, long and unmistakably surgical. i traced it with my finger.

He stirred, caught my hand gently and whispered, " old accident. doesn't matter".

But it did

Even then, i think i knew