It was January 2022 when I first said, "I do." A promise that once felt so pure, so full of hope, made in front of family, friends, and a future we both believed in. My university fiancée, a woman I thought I knew so well, became my wife on that crisp winter day. The first three months were perfect—like a dream. We were inseparable, laughing at silly things, sharing inside jokes, and finding solace in each other’s company. But as the fourth month approached, a subtle shift started to unfold—quiet at first, almost imperceptible, but powerful in its reach. It began with the small things. I would come home from work, and there was a sense of disarray that made my chest tighten. Dirty dishes in the sink, laundry piling up in corners, and the overwhelming scent of a space that wasn’t cared for. When I mentioned it, she would apologize, but the next day would be the same. I could see her exhaustion, the quiet struggle in her eyes. Still, it didn’t feel like she was trying. Then, there was the food, never on time, and rarely satisfying. I remember a time when we would cook together, and our conversations would flow effortlessly, but now, eating had become a mundane task. It wasn’t just the house or the food. It was something deeper. I found myself wanting her attention, craving her presence, and longing for the affection we once shared. I would try to talk to her, but she seemed so absorbed in her own world, in her routines, her studies, her ambitions—anything but me. Her indifference began to pierce through my thoughts like an unspoken accusation. I wasn’t important enough to demand her attention. I wasn’t enough. Our conversations about this went round and round, always ending in her promises to try harder. But nothing ever changed. And soon, I realized something: I had stopped feeling the love I once had for her. It had faded quietly, almost imperceptibly, like the slow burn of a fire that had no more fuel to feed on. There was nothing left to sustain it. By the end of last year, I had reached a breaking point. I sat her down and, with a heaviness I can never quite describe, I told her: "I don't love you anymore. And I don't know what to do." The words felt like a final verdict, a conclusion to a chapter I hadn’t expected to close. The woman who was once my everything, my best friend, had become a stranger in my eyes. We spoke about separation. It seemed inevitable. And yet, we didn't act on it—not immediately. There was a sense of inertia, a fear of the unknown, and perhaps, the remnants of some misplaced hope. But last week, something inside me shifted—more like a release than a decision. I realized I didn’t have the emotional bandwidth to keep living in a relationship that had long since lost its essence. We separated. And for the first time in a long while, I felt free. The weight that had pressed on my chest for so long was gone. I have zero regrets. The love, the promises, the dreams—some things just weren’t meant to last. Maybe we outgrew each other. On the night of the divorce she cried and it was heartbreaking but maybe we were never meant to be. But all I know is, for the first time in years, I have hopes of finding love again