My rampage continued until I stumbled upon his pregnancy preparation diary. It sat innocently on his desk, its pages filled with meticulous notes.
I flipped through it, my hands trembling. There were detailed records of every stage of my IVF treatments—my hormone levels, my diet, even my mental state. His careful handwriting filled every page, his concern seemingly genuine.
The sight of it only deepened the gaping hole in my chest. Was any of this real? I wondered. How could a man act so convincingly? To promise me the world, only to shatter it while holding someone else in his arms?
The diary slipped from my hands as I sank to the floor, curling into myself. My tears fell freely, soaking the fabric of my clothes. I had nothing left—no strength, no hope. Just a hollow shell of the woman I used to be.
As I sat there, drowning in despair, a single thought emerged from the chaos in my mind: Five more days. Just five more days and I’ll be gone forever.
The countdown had begun.
The hum of my phone broke the silence. It was a text from Harry.
“Honey, I’m sorry. The company has an emergency and I have to work overtime. I can’t accompany you today, but wait for me. I’ll come back soon.”