Divorcing My Secret Love in Year Six
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I fell in love with Adrian Hale when I was fifteen.
I loved him in secret for six years. The purest year of my life was the one I spent at his grandmother's bedside—a volunteer no one knew about, asking for nothing in return. When a fire swallowed his car in Aspen, I pulled him out. It cost me every color in my world.
He proposed in my hospital room. "Marry me. I'll take care of you for the rest of your life."
I said yes. My secret love had finally chosen me.
By year six, I knew the truth: the code to our front door belongs to another woman. Hers is the name he says in the bathroom at three in the morning. His friends call me "the blind painter" to my face—and he lets them laugh.
The day he asked me to apologize to her, I took off my ring.
Thirty days later, I was gone.
Now he stands outside my gallery, begging me to come home, swearing he never loved anyone else.
He has no idea that the girl who loved him for twelve years was the one who stopped first.
I loved him in secret for six years. The purest year of my life was the one I spent at his grandmother's bedside—a volunteer no one knew about, asking for nothing in return. When a fire swallowed his car in Aspen, I pulled him out. It cost me every color in my world.
He proposed in my hospital room. "Marry me. I'll take care of you for the rest of your life."
I said yes. My secret love had finally chosen me.
By year six, I knew the truth: the code to our front door belongs to another woman. Hers is the name he says in the bathroom at three in the morning. His friends call me "the blind painter" to my face—and he lets them laugh.
The day he asked me to apologize to her, I took off my ring.
Thirty days later, I was gone.
Now he stands outside my gallery, begging me to come home, swearing he never loved anyone else.
He has no idea that the girl who loved him for twelve years was the one who stopped first.
















































