He left for abroad with his mistress, while we were making plans for a family and children.
I know he doesn’t deserve my tears, but my heart refuses to forget.
I’m writing this because everything inside me burns—with resentment, with pain, with anger at myself for still loving the man who crushed my heart like dirt under his shoe. I don’t know how to unlearn loving a betrayer who simply erased me from his life, as if I were a temporary mistake rather than part of his fate.
Thomas and I had known each other since childhood. We started dating in secondary school, then went to university together in Manchester. We shared a rented flat, just like a real family. Sometimes we couldn’t even afford food—we’d fall asleep hungry—but all we needed was each other. He’d hold my hand, I’d press my head against his chest, and every night before bed, he’d whisper, “I love you.” Those words were warmer than any blanket and more important than stability.
After graduation, we decided to stay in Manchester. We talked about marriage, children, saving up for a big house on the outskirts—somewhere with a garden, a dog, a porch swing. Thomas got a job at a major international firm, while I bounced between interviews for months, feeling unwanted. Eventually, I settled for an office job with a much smaller salary, but I was happy—now I could contribute to our home too. Little comforts appeared in the flat—a throw blanket, curtains, mismatched mugs. I was building a home, even if it was rented.
Thomas climbed the career ladder fast, and soon he was being sent on business trips across Europe. Every few months, he’d fly out—Paris, Vienna, Rome. He’d come back distant, exhausted, but I blamed it on stress. Then one evening, he told me he’d been assigned to the Stockholm office for a year. I broke down in tears—a year apart felt like forever. But Thomas just hardened. No embrace, no comfort, no promise to wait. That night, for the first time, he didn’t say he loved me. I felt it then—something had shifted—but I refused to believe it.
When he left, we said goodbye coldly. No tears from him, no “I’ll miss you.” Only I knew how much it cost me not to drop to my knees and scream, “Stay!” A few days later, I got an email. Detached, final. He thanked me for everything we’d shared, said he’d owed me the truth: he’d been having an affair with a colleague. And, incidentally, she was also in Stockholm now. He wished me happiness and asked me not to hold a grudge. That was it. No regrets. No explanations. No right to reply.
I cried for days. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, just stared at the ceiling, wondering how real love could be abandoned so easily. The worst part? He didn’t even have the guts to say it to my face. He just vanished, leaving emptiness and unanswered questions. I wasn’t just grieving for myself—I was grieving for all our years, all our shared dreams, all the “somedays” that would never happen now.
And I know—he doesn’t deserve my tears. A man who can’t end things like an adult isn’t a man. He’s a coward. But my heart won’t listen to reason. I don’t know how to trust again, how to let love in. Now I flinch at glances, at smiles. I’ve become wary, guarded, untrusting. But one day, that will change. I know time will dull the pain, and I’ll dream again. For now, I’m learning to live without him. Learning to breathe without his scent. Learning to love myself. And that’s my salvation.
