The Coach's Lie, My Final Truth

nursing a career-ending injury, when I found him on another woman's social media,

t the hospital. She was with

the floor to protect her. My medical reports scattered across

e just called me pathe

sneered, his voice cold. "Yo

ld my terminal diagnosis. I had m

a one-way ticket to see the world. My life was ending, b

pte

my hand, a cold rectangle in my feverish palm. Five days. Five days since he last answered my call, since he

sandpaper. Chills ran down my spine, making me pull the thin blanket tighter around my shoulders, but it

ling well. My ankle is really hurting, and I have a fever. Call me when you can." No reply. Before that, another one: "Still

s there, meticulously planning my training, analyzing every jump, every spin. Now, it was just an empty void where his presence should have been

. My heart leaped. Elliott? I snatched it up, my

n't El

n't ring any bells. I hesitated, my thumb hovering over the screen. Why would a stranger add me?

d eyes that held a hint of defiance. She was striking. My gaze dropped to her recent posts. There, unmistakabl

hitched. This couldn't be real. My fingers, trembling, zoomed in on the picture. Elliott's smile was wide and genuine, a smile I hadn't seen

ect. It all clicked into place with a sickening thud. This wasn't just a stranger. This

message to Kelsie. "Who are you? What are you doing with my husband? Where is he?" I sent it wi

, a suffocating band of despair. No reply. Just li

ds. Sleep was an impossible luxury. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw his smile, her defiant gaze. The pai

eamt of Elliott, laughing with Kelsie, holding her hand. When I tried to reach for him, he turned, his face cold and emotio

ars streamed down my face, hot and stinging. I reached out instinctively, searching for a hand to hold, a comforting presence. But th

of my nightmare. Kelsie Holman. Another message. My breath hitched. I clicke

ng her close, his expression tender. And then, the one that shattered me completely. Elliott, in our kitchen, cooking a meal. A meal that looked like the special Italian pasta he only ever

love. The images were a cruel, visceral punch to the gut. Each photo was a fresh wound, twisting the knife deeper into my alr

y fingers flying across the screen, a primal scream of rage and despair. "How could you? After everyth

this? Don't you have any shame? Any respect for a marriage?" The words vanished into the digital void, swallowed by the