Heart heavy with a mix of relief and sorrow, I left the house that had never felt like a home. The divorce papers weighed less than the emotional baggage I’d been carrying. The pillow, my one comfort item, was now more important than ever. It had been with me through countless late-night study sessions, heartbreaks, and joyous moments. It was the only thing that felt like it had a piece of my soul stitched into its seams.
As I settled into a tiny apartment of my own, I decided to start fresh. Cleaning the pillow seemed symbolic of the new life I wanted to embrace. It was time to remove the remnants of the past, both literally and metaphorically. But as I unzipped the pillow to remove its cover, I felt something strange—a hard, flat object buried within the fluff. My heart skipped a beat, oscillating between curiosity and unease.
With trembling hands, I reached inside and pulled out an old, worn-out notebook. Its pages were yellowed, its cover battered by time. I sat on the edge of my bed, unsure of whether to open it or throw it away. My curiosity got the better of me, and I hesitantly flipped open the cover. The first page was a familiar handwriting—my own. It was a journal I had kept during my first year of marriage, long before I realized how distant Héctor would become.
