I did not send the messages.
I had spent a week drafting them. I had written out every version of the confrontation I could imagine. I had written one that was cold and procedural. I had written one that was forgiving and sad. I had written one that listed every date, every lie, every smile, and ended with a single line: I know all of it.
I did not send any of them.
Because I finally understood what I wanted. It was not an apology, and it was not a fight. I wanted to see the room for what it actually was. I wanted to stand inside it, once, with my eyes open, and then decide what to do with the rest of my life.
So I made a different plan.
It was a Thursday when I did it. Colin was at work. Alice was at work. I had taken the day off.
I texted the group chat. Not the secret one. The rea
