I never imagined that a casual encounter in a circle of friends would drag me into the longest and most painful chapter of my life. He was nothing like my type—too polite, too calm, too composed. While I was reckless, loud, living without rules. My friends even questioned why I would fall for someone like him. But somehow, I still chose him.
We started from scratch. He was just beginning his career, with an unstable income. And I, being more financially secure, didn’t mind supporting both of us. I believed that’s what partners were supposed to do—lift each other up. And I was happy to do it.
In the following years, his career skyrocketed. Out-of-town jobs, overseas projects, A-list clients—even celebrities and government officials. I was proud, because behind all of that was me. I gladly stayed in the shadows. I cooked for him, chose his clothes, even answered his client emails in English—something he wasn’t good at.
Until one night, everything fell apart.
He said he had a late-night meeting. At 8 PM he even video-called me from the meeting room. I trusted him completely. But when he finally came home at 2 AM, exhausted, I welcomed him like always—with tea, food, and a massage.
The next morning, something pushed me to open his laptop. I knew the password. And there it was—the truth he’d been hiding. Trip histories, hotel bookings, undeniable evidence. That night, he wasn’t coming home from a meeting. That night, he was coming home from another woman’s body.
My hands trembled. My heart shattered. And it wasn’t just once—it had happened many times before. I woke him up, hit him, cried, but he still denied it. He claimed it was “a friend’s booking.” And from that moment, he became even more careful, changing passwords, hiding every trace.
I tried to leave, even moved to another city. But he always pulled me back—with apologies, with sweet words, with empty promises. And I, blinded by love, always forgave him.
But the cycle never stopped. Every business trip meant illicit massages. Every silence meant secret chats. I grew disgusted, yet I stayed. He grew colder, more distant, barely acknowledging me. Until one day, I realized I was no longer his partner—I was just a shadow waiting for scraps of affection.
I once took him to the ER at dawn when he was sick, nursed him back to health, fed him with my own hands. But just hours later, he was video-calling another woman for sex. That pain burned into me so deep, I thought I was losing my mind.
The breaking point came when he returned from abroad with an STD. The doctor said: gonorrhea. I screamed, furious, but he denied it again, blaming it on “dirty water.” But I knew. His body carried proof of betrayal. And mine carried the consequences.
Five years. Five years of broken promises, manipulation, and betrayal. Five years that stripped me of who I was. I no longer knew myself, only a shadow clinging to a love that was never real.
I kept asking: why was I so foolish? Why did I keep forgiving? Why did I still want him, even after all the pain?
Maybe it was love.
Or maybe it was because I had lost all the love I once had for myself.
Photo by Alex Shute on Unsplash
