I hadn’t spoken to Elliot in nearly two years.
And I intended to keep it that way.
Eight years together.
Five married.
And a divorce painful enough to teach me that love doesn’t always end with screaming—sometimes it dies quietly, through disappointment and distance until strangers are standing where soulmates once were.
By the time the papers were signed, I was exhausted.
Not angry.
Just emptied out.
So I rebuilt.
New apartment.
New routines.
New life.
I deleted photos, boxed away old letters, and taught myself not to flinch whenever his name surfaced in conversation.
Eventually, the ache dulled.
Or maybe I simply became better at carrying it.
Then one rainy Thursday night, my phone buzzed.
I almost ignored it.
Facebook messages from strangers usually meant scams or accidental requests.
But the notification caught my eye.
Message request from: Natalie Mercer.
The profile picture showed a woman smiling beside a lake.
Pretty.
Maybe early thirties.
Nothing unusual.
Then I saw the last name.
Mercer.
My stomach tightened.
Elliot’s last name.
Suddenly my pulse felt louder than the rain outside.
I opened the message.
Hi. I know this is strange.
I’m Elliot’s new wife.
My breath caught.
I hadn’t even known he remarried.
The message continued.
I debated contacting you for weeks.
I’m sorry if this feels inappropriate, but I need to ask you something… just ONE question.
I stared at the screen.
A hundred possibilities flooded my mind.
Did he talk about me?
Was something wrong?
Did they want closure?
Money?
Answers?
Every instinct told me to close the app and protect the peace I’d fought to build.
But curiosity can be cruel.
After several minutes, I typed back.
What question?
The reply came almost immediately.
Did Elliot ever sleepwalk?
I froze.
Not what I expected.
At all.
I read it twice.
Then a third time.
A chill moved through me.
Because of all the memories I buried…
That one returned instantly.
My fingers hesitated above the keyboard.
Why are you asking?
Three dots appeared.
Then vanished.
Then returned.
Finally:
Because he keeps waking up outside.
The room suddenly felt colder.
I leaned back against the couch.
Sleepwalking.
I hadn’t thought about it in years.
But yes.
Elliot used to do it.
Rarely.
Maybe three or four times during our marriage.
Mostly during stressful periods.
Once I found him standing barefoot in the kitchen holding cereal.
Another time, he unlocked the front door before I guided him back to bed.
It always unsettled him afterward.
I typed carefully.
Yes. Sometimes. Stress made it worse.
Her reply came fast.
Oh God.
A strange uneasiness settled inside me.
Then another message appeared.
There’s more.
My stomach tightened again.
Last week, I found him in our backyard at 3 a.m.
He was digging.
I sat upright.
Digging?
Before I could answer, another message arrived.
And tonight… he woke up holding a photograph of you.
My breath stalled.
For several seconds, I couldn’t move.
The rain tapped harder against the windows.
I stared at those words.
A photograph of me.
Natalie sent another message.
I swear I’m not trying to upset you.
I just… I don’t know what’s happening.
Against my better judgment, I replied.
Can we talk?
Her response was immediate.
Please.
Twenty minutes later, we were on a video call.
Natalie looked tired.
Not dramatic.
Not jealous.
Just genuinely frightened.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly. “I know this is uncomfortable.”
I nodded cautiously.
“It’s okay.”
She hesitated.
“Elliot told me the divorce was mutual.”
I almost laughed.
Of course he did.
“He left out details,” I said.
Her eyes dropped.
“I figured.”
Silence hung between us.
Then she spoke carefully.
“He’s been… different lately.”
“How?”
She swallowed.
“Distracted. Secretive.” Her voice lowered. “And he talks in his sleep.”
A familiar ache stirred inside me.
“What does he say?”
Natalie looked uncomfortable.
“Mostly names.”
I stiffened.
Then she whispered—
“Yours.”
The air left my lungs.
She rushed to explain.
“I’m not accusing anyone of anything. I just don’t understand.”
I looked away.
Neither did I.
Then Natalie said something unexpected.
“He doesn’t know I messaged you.”
That surprised me.
“Why not?”
Her face tightened.
“Because when I mentioned your name once…” She hesitated. “He got angry.”
Something felt wrong.
Not dangerous.
Just… unfinished.
Then Natalie reached off-screen and returned holding an old photograph.
“I found this hidden in a box.”
My pulse quickened.
It was us.
Elliot and me.
On a beach trip from years ago.
A photo I thought had been destroyed.
“He keeps it locked in his desk,” she said quietly.
I didn’t know what to say.
Part of me felt guilty.
Another part felt strangely sad.
Not because I wanted Elliot back.
I didn’t.
But because I suddenly realized something painful:
Some people move on publicly long before they do emotionally.
Natalie looked close to tears.
“One question,” she said.
I nodded.
She took a breath.
“Did he ever really get over you?”
The question landed harder than I expected.
I looked at her for a long moment.
Then answered honestly.
“I don’t know.”
And it was the truth.
Because love ending and love healing are not always the same thing.
A few days later, Natalie messaged again.
This time the truth surfaced.
Elliot had started therapy.
And eventually admitted something he’d hidden even from himself.
He wasn’t in love with me anymore.
But he had never forgiven himself for how our marriage ended—or the choices that led to our divorce.
The sleepwalking.
The old photos.
The buried memories.
They weren’t about romance.
They were about guilt.
And guilt, I learned, has a way of wandering through locked doors long after we think the past is buried.
I never spoke to Elliot directly.
I didn’t need to.
Some chapters don’t reopen for reconciliation.
They reopen for understanding.
And sometimes closure arrives not through the person who hurt you—
But through the stranger brave enough to ask one difficult question.
