"You can't start the next chapter of your life if you keep rereading the last one."
— Michael McMillan
Something cracked the night Ailín sat on the edge of the bed with her face buried in her hands.
It wasn't a theatrical meltdown.
It wasn't explosive pain.
It was something worse:
A weight that had taken years to settle into her bones.
When Dylan walked into the room, he froze. She looked still, fragile, like one more breath might make her disappear. He didn't speak at first. He simply stood there, afraid that sound alone might break her.
Then, cautiously—as if she were glass—he approached.
"Ailín…" he whispered.
She lifted her face.
And he saw something he hadn't seen in years:
A sadness so honest
it didn't fit inside her anymore.
"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.
Ailín took her time—long, painful seconds.
"I don't know," she finally said.
"Can you explain it?"
"I don't know who I am now."
I, Oscurita—the internal villainess, queen of sarcasm, shadow extraordinaire—felt something inside me tighten.
Because that?
That wasn't one of my lines.
She didn't say:
"I'm alone."
"You don't love me."
"I'm not enough."
No.
She said:
"I don't know who I am now."
And that, darling, is not sadness.
That is transformation waiting for permission.
Dylan inhaled sharply, as if her words struck him too.
"I don't know who I am without them either," he admitted.
Ailín blinked, stunned.
He never spoke like this.
Ever.
"Really…?" she whispered.
"Yes. I got so used to being 'Dad' that I forgot the rest."
"I thought you were fine."
"I'm not fine if you're not okay."
A human silence.
Silence.
But not the cold, distant silence from before.
This one was soft. Human. Breakable.
I expected a grand cinematic moment here—
A hug, tears, reconciliation, boom, problem solved.
But humans don't work like that.
And honestly?
Good for them.
"Dylan…" Her voice trembled. "Do you think we… lost each other?"
"I think we stopped taking care of what we had."
"And… can we fix it?"
"If you want to, I want to too."
But she didn't answer.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because something deep—quiet, stubborn, and impossibly true—was forming inside her:
Sometimes, to save something… you first have to let it break.
…
That night, after Dylan fell asleep, Ailín went downstairs. She stood by the window, holding her own trembling hands, staring at the empty street as if it contained answers.
I slipped behind her—not as a threat, no sharp sarcasm—just… present.
"You're scared," I said.
"Yes."
"Do you know of what?"
She let out a breath.
"Of feeling alive again."
Oh.
Ooooooh.
That was not part of my usual script.
Her voice didn't sound defeated.
It sounded… awakening.
"I want to change," she whispered, eyes shimmering with tears she didn't allow to fall. "I want to find myself again. I want to stop living on autopilot. I want to… love myself again. Feel again. Be myself again."
I actually swallowed. Yes, Shadows never swallow, but this felt appropriate.
"And what are you planning to do?" I asked.
She closed her eyes.
Breathed.
"I'm going to separate from Dylan."
There was no anger.
No guilt.
No melodrama.
Just truth.
And truth is the one thing even my darkness can't fight.
I froze.
Not dramatically—
(Okay, dramatically)—
but even for me, this was big.
"Wait, wait, WAIT," I said, throwing up invisible hands like a shadow traffic cop. "Do you know what happens to women who divorce after forty? Society throws them into that folkloric limbo called: 'Poor thing, she must be going through something.'"
Ailín didn't flinch. "I don't care what society thinks."
Oh.
OH.
This woman was becoming dangerous.
"They'll say you're starting over too late," I continued, spiraling. "They'll assume you want a younger boyfriend, that you ruined your marriage, that you're unstable, that—"
"I'm not doing this to find anyone," she said calmly. "I'm doing this to find myself."
Well.
That shut me up for a full three seconds—a personal record.
"And besides," she added, "I've lived. I raised children. I built a career. I loved. I tried. Maybe I could've enjoyed more if I hadn't been so anxious and insecure when I was younger… but I'm not going to spend the rest of my life regretting that."
I blinked.
Shadows blink when emotionally overwhelmed.
"So… what? You're entering your 'I will do everything I didn't do in my twenties' era?"
Ailín smiled.
Small. Soft. Real.
"Maybe. Maybe now I get to enjoy the world without fear. Without shrinking. Without thinking I'm not enough."
I put a hand on my imaginary hip.
"So just to confirm… no post-divorce glow-up boyfriend arc?"
"No," she laughed weakly. "This isn't about men. This is about freedom."
Freedom.
The word echoed inside her.
And—unfortunately—inside me.
Because for the first time, she wasn't running from pain.
Or from me.
She was running toward herself.
And I, Oscurita—
queen of sabotage, princess of inner chaos—
felt something I absolutely did not approve of:
Fear.
Real fear.
"Are you sure?" I whispered, without sarcasm.
"No. But I can't stay like this anymore."
And that…
that was a lighthouse in the dark.
A woman choosing herself for the first time in decades.
It terrified me.
It filled me with pride.
It scrambled every atom of my shadowy soul.
Humans choose like that sometimes—
with bravery that breaks things cleanly, so healing finally has space to grow.
…
When she finally told Dylan, they both cried.
Not because they hated each other.
Not because they wanted to hurt each other.
But because they understood—
silently, painfully—
that their story had run its course.
They weren't ending for lack of love.
They were ending because they had grown in different directions.
They let each other go the way you release something precious:
Gently.
Gratefully.
With grief.
And I, sitting in the corner like a depressed Victorian ghost, understood something too:
Not all endings are tragedies.
Some endings are evolutions.