He went abroad with his mistress, while I was busy planning our future and babies.
I know he doesn’t deserve my tears, but my heart refuses to forget.
I’m writing this because everything inside me is burning—with hurt, with anger, with frustration at myself for still loving the man who trampled on my heart like it was just pavement dust. I don’t know how to unlearn loving a cheat who simply erased me from his life, as if I were a temporary blunder, not a chapter in his story.
James and I had known each other since we were kids. We started dating in sixth form, then went off to university in Manchester together. We shared a rented flat like a proper little family. Sometimes we were so skint we’d go to bed hungry, but it didn’t matter—we had each other. He’d hold my hand, I’d curl into his chest, and every night before bed, he’d whisper, “I love you.” Those words kept me warmer than any duvet and meant more than any steady paycheck.
After uni, we decided to stay in Manchester. We even talked about weddings, babies, saving up for a proper house somewhere on the outskirts—one with a garden, a dog, and a porch swing. James landed a fancy job at an international firm, while I bounced between interviews like a pinball, convinced no one wanted me. Eventually, I settled for an office gig with a laughable salary, but I was happy just to chip in. Our rented flat started feeling homier—throw blankets, curtains, matching mugs. I was building a home, even if the lease wasn’t in my name.
James climbed the career ladder fast, and soon he was jetting off on business trips—Paris, Vienna, Rome. He’d return distant and exhausted, but I chalked it up to work stress. Then one evening, he dropped the bomb: a year-long transfer to their Stockholm office. I burst into tears—a year apart felt like forever. But James? Cold as ice. No hug, no “we’ll make it work,” not even a half-hearted “I’ll miss you.” That night, for the first time, he didn’t say he loved me. Something had shifted, but I refused to see it.
When he left, our goodbye was brisk. No tears on his end, no “I’ll call you.” It took everything in me not to drop to my knees and scream, “Stay!” A few days later, an email arrived. Clinical. Detached. He thanked me for the memories, said he’d been meaning to tell me sooner but lacked the spine: he’d been seeing a colleague. Oh, and guess what? She was in Stockholm too. He wished me happiness and asked me not to hate him. That was it. No apologies. No explanations. No right of reply.
I cried for days. I barely ate, barely slept, just stared at the ceiling wondering how you walk away from real love like it’s a bad takeaway. The worst part? He couldn’t even say it to my face. Just vanished, leaving behind silence and questions with no answers. I wasn’t just heartbroken for me—I was gutted for all our years, our plans, the “somedays” that would never come true.
And I know—he doesn’t deserve my tears. A man who can’t end things like an adult isn’t a man at all. He’s a coward. But my heart doesn’t care about logic. I don’t know how to trust again, how to let someone in. These days, even a smile feels risky. I’m different now—guarded, wary, slower to believe. But one day, that’ll change. I know it will. The hurt will fade, and I’ll dream again. For now, I’m learning to live without him. Learning to breathe without his cologne. Learning to love myself. And that’s my saving grace.
