𝐏𝐞𝐭𝐞𝐫

You loved Peter. Every part of him. Every breath he took. Every glance, every word, every touch—burned into your soul.
He was tall. Muscular. Powerful. A storm walking on two legs. Your world. Your everything.

Then the news came.
They said he was dead.

The mansion became a grave. Walls echoed with nothing but your sobs. Nights passed in darkness, clutching his clothes to your chest, burying your face in the fabric, inhaling the scent of a man who no longer existed. Every memory became a dagger. Every heartbeat, a reminder of the void he left behind.

Days blurred into nights. Rain fell in endless sheets, beating against the windows like the relentless rhythm of your grief. You thought life had ended the moment he did.

Then one stormy night, desperate for air, you walked into the streets. Rain soaked you to the bone, the wind lashing at your hair, but you didn’t care. You were a shadow of yourself, lost, broken, drifting through the storm.

And then—you saw him.

Peter. Alive.

Your chest stopped. For a moment, your mind refused to believe it. But there he was, sitting in a warm, dim café. And he wasn’t alone.

Another woman. In his arms. Lips meeting hers. Soft. Intimate. The kiss that once belonged only to you, stolen in front of your eyes.

Your stomach dropped. The world tilted. Every memory, every promise, every sleepless night you spent holding onto him now felt like a lie.

He had never loved you—not really. He married you, perhaps, for appearances. For obligations. For reasons buried in shadows. But love? That was never yours.

Peter—the towering, unstoppable force you trusted with your entire soul—had moved on. Without you. Without care.

You wanted to scream. To run. To vanish. But all you could do was watch. Watch him kiss her. Watch him live a life you thought was yours. And deep in your bones, you realized: the love you gave freely, entirely, had been nothing but a shadow.