I found out.
I thought he was cheating on me.
Wasn’t that a fucking joke?
I was so wrong.
I pushed him away.But he pulled me back in.
And he finally stayed.
Said he was choosing me.
But he didn’t.
Hadn’t.
And no matter how I looked at it, spun it, wrapped it around my head… pulled it from my heart so I could see clearly, there was one brutal truth.
He made me this.
The other woman.
The mistress.
The homewrecker.
He made me this ugly thing.
And now I don’t even recognize myself anymore.
So I lie here and hope, wishing it not to be true.
For him to choose me.
For me to be his wife.
For me to have the happily ever after and not be the villain in her story.
I hear the sound… that fucking sound.
I suck in a breath and hold back the tears.
He hates it when I cry.
Hates it when I make a big deal about him leaving.
Hates it when I push… because then he has to pull.
Hates when I make it hard for him.
And I am so fucking desperate for any crumb he’ll throw my way.
So I wait for it… I know it’s coming.
He grabs his phone and sighs.
Sits up and runs his hands through his hair that I had my fingers tangled in only two hours ago, the smell of him still on my palms.
