There were nearly thirty students in my university class back then. Most of us came from small towns and rural areas, carrying old suitcases, worn shoes, and dreams that were bigger than our confidence. Only two people in the entire class were born and raised in the city: Natalie and Henry.

From the very first day of freshman year, Natalie stood out. She was the kind of girl who made people turn their heads without trying. Petite, fair-skinned, with long black hair that always fell neatly down her back, Natalie had a gentle smile and two deep dimples that appeared whenever she laughed. She looked like someone who had grown up surrounded by comfort and certainty, someone who belonged to the city in a way the rest of us never truly would.

Henry, on the other hand, was the kind of guy every girl noticed sooner or later. He was tall, well-built, with sharp features and an effortless sense of style. He dressed well, spoke confidently, and always seemed at ease. More importantly, he could play the guitar beautifully and had a warm, steady singing voice. At class gatherings, orientation events, or weekend picnics, Henry often brought his guitar, and Natalie would sit beside him, listening with a soft smile that made everyone understand—they were meant to be together.

So it came as no surprise when, before the end of the first semester, Natalie and Henry officially became a couple. They were inseparable. Walking to lectures together, studying late at night in the library, sharing meals in the cafeteria—they looked like the perfect embodiment of young love. Many of us, myself included, secretly envied them. Some admired them, others dreamed of having a love story even half as beautiful.

Back then, we all believed love alone was enough.

But life has a way of proving how naïve that belief can be.

By the time we reached our third year of university, something had changed. Natalie and Henry no longer sat together in class. Their conversations became short, polite, and distant. They stopped attending events together. Whispers began to spread, and eventually, the truth came out—they had broken up.

From Natalie’s close friends, we learned what had really happened. Natalie was the one who ended the relationship. Not because she had stopped loving Henry, but because she had found someone else—someone completely different.

He was an older man. Married. With children. And extremely wealthy.

According to what Natalie confided, this man was a successful businessman. He rented a luxury apartment just for her—spacious, modern, located in a prime area of the city. He paid her remaining tuition in full and gave her a generous monthly allowance in USD, an amount that felt unreal to us struggling students. Natalie no longer needed to work part-time jobs or worry about expenses. While the rest of us counted every dollar, she lived in comfort and security.

Henry was devastated.

For a long time, he seemed like a shadow of himself. He stopped bringing his guitar. His laughter disappeared. He rarely spoke unless spoken to. Watching him then, it was hard to reconcile the confident, radiant man he once was with the quiet, withdrawn person he had become.

But time, as it always does, slowly healed him.

Henry graduated on time. He found a job. He rebuilt himself piece by piece.

During our final year, while working on our graduation thesis, Henry and I were assigned to the same research group. At first, our relationship was purely academic. We spent hours together in libraries, cafés, and study rooms, discussing ideas, revising drafts, and preparing presentations. Slowly, our conversations extended beyond schoolwork. We talked about life, about fears, about disappointment and hope.

Henry had changed. He was calmer, more thoughtful, more mature. He listened attentively, spoke carefully, and showed a quiet kindness that felt genuine. Somewhere along the way, friendship turned into affection, and affection deepened into love.

After graduation, we both secured stable jobs. A few years later, we got married.

Our early married life wasn’t luxurious, but it was peaceful. We lived in a small, cramped apartment provided by a housing cooperative. Money was tight, but our days were filled with warmth. Over time, as our careers progressed, our circumstances improved. By the time we reached our forties, we owned a spacious three-story house, fully furnished, comfortable, and respectable. Henry held a solid position in his company. I, too, had built a successful career.

We weren’t extraordinarily rich, but we were comfortable—or so I believed.

For nearly twenty years after graduation, our class never held a reunion. So when the class committee somehow managed to gather almost everyone for a reunion after two decades, it felt surreal.

That night, Natalie appeared again.

She was still beautiful, but in a different way. The youthful glow of her twenties had been replaced by a deeper, more composed elegance. She carried herself with confidence, but there was something quieter, more guarded in her eyes.

During introductions, Natalie calmly revealed that she was now a single mother. She had a child with the wealthy man she once believed would leave his wife for her. He never did. He kept his family—and left Natalie with promises that dissolved into occasional financial support and silence.

Listening to her story, I felt a strange mix of sympathy and unease.

After the reunion, Henry became unusually quiet. On the drive home, he sighed repeatedly, remarking on how successful everyone seemed—luxury cars, expensive watches, stories of investments and businesses. He compared himself to them, noting bitterly that he still drove an old, worn sedan.

He said he wanted to work harder. Take on extra projects. Earn more money. Upgrade his life.

Wanting my husband to feel confident and respected among his peers, I supported him wholeheartedly. I never imagined that my encouragement would unknowingly fuel a perfectly constructed affair.

From that point on, Henry began leaving early and coming home late. Sometimes, he was gone for days, even weeks, citing business trips and side projects. I trusted him. But nearly a year passed, and there was no sign of the promised new car. No financial improvement. Only a growing emotional distance between us.

Then came the night that shattered everything.

It was a weekend evening when I accompanied my company’s executives to a luxury hotel on the outskirts of the city to welcome an important group of business partners. As I walked into the hotel lobby, my world stopped.

At the reception desk, Henry stood with his arm wrapped around Natalie’s waist. Their posture, their closeness, the way they spoke softly to each other—it was unmistakable. They looked like a married couple.

I stood frozen.

After they disappeared toward the elevators, I approached the front desk and casually asked about them. The receptionist smiled politely and explained that they were a wealthy married couple from another province who frequently stayed at the hotel for extended business trips.

I followed them in silence.

Exactly one hour later, I knocked on their hotel room door.

When the door opened, both Henry and Natalie turned pale. Without a word, I walked in and placed a divorce agreement, already signed with my name, on the table.

The room fell into suffocating silence.

The play was over.