À la recherche de cette femme d'une nuit

I stared at the photo on the screen. No faces were visible, only a pair of hands tightly intertwined.

The man had long, slender fingers with well-defined knuckles, while the woman's fingers were adorned with delicately manicured nails.

But on the inside of the woman's wrist was a faint, thin raised scar, looking like a light-colored centipede lying beneath her skin.

Most people probably wouldn't have noticed such a tiny detail, but there was no way I could mistake it.

It was the mark left behind from the day I pulled her back from the brink of death.

Clara Lowden and I were childhood sweethearts.

We were in the same class from elementary school through high school.

Back then, she wasn't the sophisticated and capable career woman she had become later.

She used to be gloomy, withdrawn, and timid, like someone who had spent years hiding from the world. She always kept her head down, her bangs falling over her eyes, and barely spoke to anyone.

The girls in our class excluded her and even bullied her. I was the only one who was willing to stand by her and be her friend.

When someone threw her textbooks into the trash, I would pick them up for her. When she was hungry, I would share my sandwich with her.

In eighth grade, her parents went through a bitter divorce. Her hot-tempered father took out his anger on her, beating and kicking her whenever he lost control.

Under the constant abuse, Clara developed severe depression.

I still remember that stormy afternoon.

I was worried about her, so I climbed over the wall into her family's yard to find her. Through the first-floor bathroom window, I saw a horrifying sight.

Clara was lying in the bathtub, the water around her stained a shocking red.

There was a deep cut on her wrist from a box cutter.

I smashed the window, rushed inside, and wrapped a towel around her wrist to stop the bleeding.

Lying in the hospital bed, Clara's face was pale as a sheet. She looked at me with hollow eyes and asked, "Gavin, will you leave me?"

I hugged her, tears welling in my eyes, and swore, "Clara, I'll never leave you."

From that day on, I became the only light in her life.

I went to therapy sessions with her, made sure she took her medication, and stayed by her side through countless nights when she struggled with thoughts of ending her life.

That scar was a mark of what her depression had put her through, but it was also a symbol of the bond we had forged through life and death.

After graduating from high school, we naturally got together.

Even though we attended different colleges because we chose different majors, those four years never weakened our relationship.

We got married after graduation and have been together for four years ever since.

I thought she loved me deeply.

Whenever my stomach problems acted up, she would take care of me with the utmost care. Even the slightest frown from me would leave her worried for hours.

I had always believed I was the happiest man alive, until I saw that photo on Instagram.

A familiar scar in the image stopped me cold. The post came with a shocking confession.

"My best friend's wife is pregnant with my child."