Page 77 of Shattered Dreams
"Well, I broke anyway. And I hurt the people I love the most while I was falling apart."
Another pause. I can hear traffic outside, people living their normal lives while mine sits in ruins. The thought pisses me off and motivates me at the same time.
"I'm not looking for pity here. Or forgiveness. I don't deserve either. I just want to be better. For me. For my daughter who used to think I was some kind of hero. For Ava. Even if I never get her back."
I stare into the camera for a long moment, seeing myself the way the world sees me now. Not the polished athlete with the perfect smile and the endorsement deals. Just a broken man trying to figure out how to be human.
"This is me. This is what rock bottom looks like. And maybe that's where I need to start."
I hit stop and stare at the screen showing my thumbnail—dishevelled, hollow-eyed, completely stripped of the image I spent years building.
Then I post it.
No caption. No filter. No bullshit inspirational quote. Just the truth in all its ugly glory.
I set the phone down and immediately want to delete it. My finger hovers over the screen, but I force myself to leave it alone. For once in my life, I'm not going to run from the consequences of my choices.
An hour later, my phone's buzzing nonstop. The video's got over 20,000 views and climbing. Comments are pouring in—some supportive, most telling me I'm a piece of shit who deserves everything that happened to me. Both are probably fair.
I turn off notifications when I see Ava's name trending again. But this time it's not because of me or the divorce or the scandal. It's because of some event she spoke at today.
The one I wasn't invited to. The one I found out about by watching her Instagram story.
I click on the trending topic against my better judgment, and there she is. A still from her speech is everywhere—her standing on stage in this sleek red blazer over a black dress that hugs every curve I used to trace with my hands. Her head held high, shoulders back, and she's got this look on her face that I've never seen before.
Power. Pure, unfiltered power.
She looks incredible. Like she's not just surviving anymore—she's living.Thriving. Like my absence from her life hasn't broken her at all. It's made her stronger.
The caption under one of the photos reads:
"Ava Muller delivers a powerful speech on finding your voice after trauma. Standing ovation from 3,000 attendees."
And damn, I've never been prouder of anyone in my entire life. Or more gutted by my own stupidity.
She doesn't need me to shine. She never did.
I scroll through more photos, videos of her speaking with confidence and grace about resilience and finding strength in the darkest moments. Comments praising her courage, her dignity, her refusal to let my betrayal define her.
She's everything I pretended to be—strong, real, unbreakable. The difference is she's not pretending.
Maybe that's the point of all this. Maybe I'm not supposed to hold her back anymore. Maybe I'm just meant to watch from the sidelines and learn what real strength looks like, maybe even grow into someone who might someday deserve to breathe the same air as her.
The following day,I pick up my phone and record another video.
"Me again," I say, my jaw tight with emotions I can't name. "I watched my wife give a speech yesterday about resilience. About finding your voice after someone tries to silence it. And I realized something—she's not just surviving what I did to her. She's fucking thriving."
I pause, thinking about the way she looked on that stage. Untouchable. Magnificent.
"She doesn't need me to be whole. She never did. Ava, I’m so fucking proud of you, baby. But if I ever want to be worthy of standing beside her again—if that's even possible—I've got to keep doing this work. Not for her. For me. Because the man who destroyed our marriage isn't the man I want to be anymore."
I look directly into the camera, making this promise to myself as much as to anyone watching.
"I'm done being the guy who breaks everything he touches. Starting right now."
Click.
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