You still remember that business trip to Cancún the way people remember near accidents: in flashes, in sounds, in the strange delay between what happened and what your mind was willing to understand. For years, you had told yourself the story of your divorce in the neatest possible version. It was cleaner that way—less shame, less responsibility, less need to examine the one place most people avoid for too long: the mirror.
By then, Elena had already been your ex-wife for almost three years. There had been no dramatic betrayal, no shocking revelation, no anonymous message arriving at midnight to blow up your life. Your marriage had ended quietly, like many marriages do, from the slow accumulation of misunderstandings, exhaustion, and unspoken grievances.
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