Chapter 1 — The Day I Became a Divorcee

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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Why are the tears coming now, as I step out of the courthouse? It feels like everyone is staring at me.

Nine years of marriage—ended today.

For five years, my husband had suspected me of things I never did. He beat me regularly, but I clung to the marriage, refusing to divorce.

But when I found out about the other woman, I couldn't forgive him. Not this time.

Tears fall. I've ended a marriage that felt like a nightmare, so why does it hurt so much? Why do I keep crying?

I pushed away my siblings who followed me, not wanting them to see me like this. I left alone.

I walked out of the courthouse and just kept walking. Everyone passing by seems to be looking at me.

Do they know I'm a divorcee now? My tears won't stop.

How long did I walk? I saw a movie theater sign. Without thinking, I bought a ticket and went in.

The female ticket clerk stared at me intently. Does she know I'm divorced too?

I opened the heavy door and saw about a hundred seats, but only a handful of people watching the film.

Only then did I realize—this was one of those adult theaters I'd only heard about in whispers.

I thought about leaving, but I had nowhere else to go. I didn't want to return to an empty house where no one would welcome me. So I slipped into the very back row, hiding myself.

No one seemed to notice me.

I stared at the screen, lost in memories.

Back in college, I was called the "May Queen," admired by every man. When I married my husband—three years older, self-made, successful—I was envied by everyone.

But now look at me.

Tears again.

I'm 38 now. How do I start over? How do I live? The future felt dark, hopeless.

Lost in these thoughts, I suddenly felt movement beside me.

When had he sat down? A man in his early thirties was now seated on my left. I didn't care. I didn't want to move.

I turned back to the screen, trying to sink into my thoughts—when his hand landed on my thigh.

I flinched, but I didn't pull away.

I don't know why. Was it revenge against my husband? Or just a surrender to despair?

His touch was gentle at first, questioning. When I didn't resist, he grew bolder—his hand moving slowly, deliberately, along my skin.

I let myself drift, detached from my own body. The screen played on, but I wasn't watching anymore. I wasn't thinking about what was happening or why I wasn't stopping it. There was only the numbness, the hollow ache of being noticed for the first time in years.

He led me out of the theater, his hand firm around my wrist. I followed without protest, my legs moving almost of their own accord. He seemed to know the place—he pulled me through a door marked for staff, into a quiet corridor away from the screens.

He pressed me against the wall, his body close, his mouth finding mine. The kiss was deep, searching, like he was trying to reach something I didn't know was still there. His hands moved to my blouse, undoing buttons with practiced ease, pushing fabric aside.

I let him. I didn't stop him. I wasn't sure I wanted to.

His mouth left mine, traveling down my neck, over my collarbone. He lifted my blouse, exposing me, and his lips found my breast, warm and insistent. A sound escaped me—something I hadn't made in years, not like this, not from genuine want.

His hands skirted the edge of my skirt, fingers brushing against me through the fabric. I was wet—I could feel it, could feel my body responding despite everything, despite the grief, despite the anger. His touch was nothing like my husband's had been. It was careful. Attentive. Like he actually wanted to please me.

I gasped, my hands gripping the edge of the desk beside me. He was careful, so careful, checking in with his eyes, waiting for any sign to stop. But I didn't want him to stop. I wanted to feel something other than pain.

When he entered me, it was slow. Gentle. He let me adjust to him, moving only when I nodded, when I whispered yes. And when he started to move, it was like something unlocked inside me—a pleasure I'd forgotten was possible, flooding through my body in waves.

I came undone. Not just once, but again and again, my body shaking, my breath ragged. He held me through it, his rhythm steady, his hand cupping my face as if I were something precious.

Later, when it was over, he pulled away slowly, carefully, as if trying not to hurt me. He helped me straighten my clothes, his touch tender. He said nothing, but his eyes spoke—something like apology, something like gratitude.

He took my hand and led me back toward the theater entrance. I thought he might say something. But he didn't.

I said nothing either. Not in the theater. Not during sex. Not after.

He led me to the theater entrance, then disappeared outside.

Maybe it was better this way.

What could he have possibly said? But the way he vanished—without a word, without a glance—left me feeling hollow.

I wanted to hear his voice, just once.

But he walked away, never looking back.

I watched him disappear.

A few minutes later, I left the theater too—alone, quietly, sadly.