Broken Promises Letters From An Ex Wife

The city was alive that night, a symphony of laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of neon lights casting soft glows on the wet pavement. It was the kind of night where anything felt possible, where strangers became lovers, and where love stories began.

Mitchell didn't expect his life to change when he stepped into The Blue Orchid, a bar tucked away in a quiet corner of downtown. He had only come because his best friend, Clara, had insisted.

"You need to get out more," she had scolded, dragging him through the doors.

"Clara, I'm perfectly fine staying in and watching bad reality TV."

"You're twenty-eight, not eighty. Come on, one drink won't kill you."

One drink had turned into two, then three. And then, somewhere between the rim of his glass and the slow jazz playing in the background, he saw him.

Michael stood near the bar, his fingers lazily drumming against the polished wood as he spoke to the bartender. He was effortlessly handsome, with tousled dark hair and a sharp jawline, the kind of beauty that felt both classic and unattainable. Mitchell wasn't usually the kind to be drawn in by strangers, but something about Michael made the air thinner, made his pulse drum against his skin.

Their eyes met-brief, curious. A flicker of recognition, though they were strangers.

"You're staring," Clara whispered, smirking.

"I am not."

"Oh, you so are. Go talk to him."

"Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"Because I'm terrible at flirting."

Clara rolled her eyes. "Good thing he's coming over here, then."