My companion tells me he loves me, yet hes never chosen me.
Its been three years now. Three years of stolen afternoons, of whispered promises that disappear into the dusk, three years where our secret only breathes when his wife is out of sight.
I didnt walk into his world knowing he was married. I stumbled upon the truth after months of laughter and little confessionsby then, the strings of my heart were already knotted. Still, I found out: his life with her was undisturbed, as ordinary as Sunday toast or post in the letterbox. By that point, escaping felt like waking from a deep sleepyou know you should, but your body wont obey.
Everything with him had conditions, like strange rules to a childs game. We could only see each other on select days, certain hours, in lonely cafés where no one would call out our names. He never stayed the night. A holiday together was out of question. My phone knew better than to capture a hint of him, not even the shadow of a shoe beside mine.
If I texted in the evening and got silence, I knew the answer.
If he disappeared over the weekends, I could guess.
His real life was elsewhere, like a house at the end of a long, foggy lane. I lived in the gaps, inhabiting hours he left behind.
I asked him again and againsounding calm and grown-upif he would leave his wife. His answer wandered in circles: Yes, but not yet. The timings off. Theres too much to arrange. She depends on me. I dont want to hurt her. I heard these sentences so often they echoed in my sleep. They turned sour in my mouth. There was always a new reason, a new date, a new hope dangling just ahead.
It was me who bent and twisted my own plans to fit him. I rescheduled shifts. Ditched evenings with friends. Birthed a habit of small silences so we wouldnt fight. When he travelled away with her, I acted as though nothing cracked inside me. On their anniversaries, I swallowed my own tears and remembered to smile. When he turned up after quarrels at home, I put my arms around him and made tea.
I was the one who listened.
Who understood.
Who waited.
And yet, I was never chosen.
Sometimes I believed I would finally walk away for good. There was the time he talked about speaking to a solicitor. I sat across from him, told him how unhappy I was, started searching for a new flat again, hoping, gambling it all. But always, something intervenedwork stress, family drama, money troubles, It isnt the right moment.
And I stayed. Stuck fast, like a moth on a windowsill.
Meanwhile, the world spun on. My friends were getting married, moving to Leeds or Bristol, making plans that grew roots. I told fibsclaimed I was single, or in some sort of no strings thing. I couldnt say the truth; I knew what people would think, could almost hear them. Still, I didnt leave. Not because I was naiveno, I loved him. Or thought I did. Sometimes Im not sure anymore.
The worst sting of all was never that he stayed married.
It was that he never stood up for me.
If she suspected, he withdrew.
If there was trouble at home, I vanished.
If he had to choose between looking at me or keeping her content, her smile always won.
I wasnt a choice.
I was a backup, something put on hold, dusty in the attic.
Still, I remain with him. But I am half-changed, hollowed out.
I want him, but I am exhausted.
Exhausted from understanding, from waiting, from making a meal out of crumbs of affection and borrowed time.
I need advicehow to finally decide.
Does this sort of thing happen to anyone else?
What would you say to this woman if she were here in front of you?
