PART 2
In the weeks leading up to her trip, I prepared my exit.
Quiet.
Careful.
Untraceable.
Every day while Katrina was at work in Makati, I moved a little more of my life out—clothes, tools, important documents—from our condo in Quezon City to the small trailer Rico had offered me. I took nothing that belonged to both of us. No furniture. No decorations. No shared memories disguised as objects. Only what was mine.
Strangely, Katrina became nicer during those final weeks. Softer. More attentive. Almost as if she sensed something slipping through her fingers.
Maybe her other man was pulling away.
Maybe guilt was finally seeping through the cracks.
But it was too late.
Nothing could erase the image burned into my mind—her hand in another man’s, walking into that hotel along EDSA.
The morning she left for her business trip, she hugged me quickly and said she’d message me once she landed. I watched her roll her suitcase down the hallway… and the moment the elevator doors closed, I started loading my pickup.
It took four hours to erase my side of our life.
Before leaving, I wrote her a note. At first, I had drafted two pages about betrayal, broken trust, and everything she destroyed.
I tore it up.
In the end, I left only five words on the kitchen table, beside my wedding ring:
“I hope it was worth it.”
Then I locked the door and walked away.
The trailer sat on Rico’s quiet property, tucked between trees, overlooking a small valley outside the city. The air felt different—cleaner, honest. I stood there for a long time, breathing in a freedom I didn’t even know I was missing.
I expected panic. Rage. Grief.
Instead, I felt clarity.
Katrina’s first message came a few hours later.
Then another.
Then dozens.
Where are you?
Why aren’t you answering?
Please call me.
We need to talk.
Paul, this isn’t funny.
By the next morning, panic turned into anger.
Her mother called.
Her friends called.
I ignored them all.
A week later, she finally cracked.
Her last message read:
“Fine. I made a mistake. But nothing happened. Can we please talk about this like adults?”
Nothing happened.
She actually typed those words.
I changed my number that afternoon.
Months passed quietly after that. My life became simple—morning runs on dirt trails, remote work, learning how to cook real meals, and weekends spent with Rico and his family. For the first time in years, I felt like myself again.
The divorce papers arrived by email. She wanted an uncontested separation.
I agreed immediately.
Just like that… I was legally free.
I met a woman who lived down the hill—a warm, outdoorsy Filipina who teased me by calling me her “Bundok Guy.” We didn’t rush anything, but she reminded me that life doesn’t end just because someone betrays you.
For nearly a year, I healed in peace.
Until one Saturday morning at my favorite café…
I saw Katrina.
She didn’t see me—but my stomach dropped. What were the odds she’d show up in the one town closest to the life I had hidden?
I tried to brush it off.
Until the next week… she appeared again.
And the third time…
she screamed my name across the street.
My ghosted ex-wife had finally tracked me down.
PART 3
When I heard my name—“Paul!”—echo across the street, my body froze.
I turned slowly… and there she was.
Katrina.
My ex-wife.
She was wearing a tank top and white shorts, her hair pulled into a ponytail—the same way she used to wear it whenever she knew I loved that look. For a split second, it felt like time folded in on itself.
She ran toward me, breathless, tears already forming. She reached out to hug me instinctively—
I raised my hands and stopped her.
Her face crumpled.
“I’ve been looking for you,” she said, her voice shaking. “Please… can we talk?”
Against every instinct screaming inside me, I agreed to sit on a bench nearby—public, open, safe. She stared at me as if she were looking at a ghost.
“You look different,” she whispered. “Stronger. Healthier. I… I like the beard.”
I ignored the attempt at charm.
“What do you want, Katrina?”
She broke.
Completely.
“I’m sorry,” she cried. “I’m so sorry—for the affair, for the lies, for pushing you away.” Her words tumbled out. “After you left, karma destroyed me. I lost my job. HR found out about… about him. They transferred him to another department. He blamed everything on me. His fiancée found out. They broke up. And I—” She choked. “I ruined everything.”
She told me she spiraled—drinking after work, hating herself, waking up alone in the condo where my absence echoed like a scream.
“I didn’t know how much I loved you until you were gone,” she whispered.
I listened. Quietly.
But inside me… something stayed cold.
“You think you can come here and undo everything?” I finally said, my voice rising. People nearby glanced over. “You killed our marriage the moment you walked into that hotel with him. I SAW YOU.”
Her face drained of color.
She grabbed my arm and sobbed uncontrollably. I let her cry for a moment—then gently pulled her away.
After she calmed down, she explained how she found me. She had run into a mutual friend, Sara, who casually mentioned I might be living somewhere near this town. Katrina admitted she’d spent weeks driving out here on her days off, hoping to catch a glimpse of me.
Part of me felt uneasy.
Another part felt nothing at all.
We talked for over an hour. Strangely calm. Painfully familiar. She asked if she could take me out to dinner. I said no. She asked if she could see where I lived. I refused. Then she begged—actually begged—for another chance.
“I would forgive you if you cheated,” she said desperately.
“But you would never forgive me,” I replied. “That’s the difference.”
She went silent.
Before leaving, she asked for my number. I gave her only an email address.
A week later, she sent me a long email—pages filled with regret, love, longing, and promises to start over. She said she had accepted a new job and wanted me to move with her to another province, to start fresh.
My reply was short:
I’m not coming back. I don’t trust you. I’m happy with my life now. Please move on.
She responded with anger.
Then desperation.
Then silence.
And just like that… she disappeared again.
I haven’t heard from her since.
Today, I’m thirty-two. I live quietly on a hilltop, run trails at sunrise, meet new people, and finally know how to exist without constant anxiety. My past doesn’t define me. Her betrayal doesn’t own me. And the peace I built—the life she could never touch—now feels solid beneath my feet.
If she ever emails again, I doubt I’ll reply.
Some stories don’t get closure.
Some don’t need it.
Would you have forgiven her… or walked away like I did?
Share your thoughts—I’m curious what others would’ve chosen.