He kissed her the way he used to kiss me.
And I didn’t cry.
Not then.
I simply watched.
It felt as if something inside me had turned to stone.
After a few seconds, the woman laughed and whispered something to him.
Together, they walked into the hotel.
I remained in my car.
I didn’t follow them immediately.
Not because I didn’t want to.
Because suddenly I couldn’t move.
Thirty-one years of marriage.
Two children.
Countless birthdays.
Holidays.
Illnesses.
Loans.
Our first tiny apartment in Mladost.
The nights we stayed awake when our son had a fever.
Our daughter’s wedding.
My mother’s funeral, when Georgi had held my hand the entire time.
All of those memories rushed through my mind like a film that had suddenly stopped halfway through.
And the final image left on the screen was my husband walking into a hotel with another woman.
Finally, I took out my phone.
I could have called him.
I could have screamed.
I could have sent him a message.
I see you.
But I didn’t.
I took a picture.
Then another.
Not because I wanted to become some kind of detective.
But because part of me already knew he might look me in the eyes later and tell me I had imagined everything.
