I’d been with Emily for over four years. I was already browsing jewelry stores, dreaming of the perfect ring to propose to my beloved, but after her latest devastating stunt, my heart sank into a pit of doubt: “Is she even worth it?”
It all unraveled just over a month ago. That fateful night, our friends invited us to hang out at a bar in Seattle. Our group was a rowdy mix—nine guys and three girls. I’ve never been one for loud gatherings, and that day I was utterly drained from work, so I decided to head home early. Not wanting to seem like a killjoy in front of my buddies, I left Emily behind to enjoy the night.
When I got home, I collapsed into bed, exhausted. The entire evening passed without a single text from Emily. I jolted awake in the middle of the night and sent her a message: “Sweetheart, when are you coming home?” Silence. No reply. I called her, but the phone rang into oblivion—she didn’t pick up.
I didn’t want her to think I was some jealous lunatic, so I held back from bombarding her with more calls or texts.
Emily stumbled in at the crack of dawn. When I asked, trembling with dread, where she’d been all night, she casually dropped a bombshell: “I was at Jake’s place. We watched a movie.” Her words hit me like a freight train—my mind spun, and my chest tightened.
As a man, I felt the urge to break down and sob, but I clenched my fists, summoning every ounce of strength, and asked the question that was tearing me apart: “Did something happen between you two?”
She claimed Jake tried to kiss her, but she supposedly refused. I knew Jake all too well—his charm, his tricks—and her story reeked of lies. I pressed her harder, and after twenty agonizing minutes, she cracked, admitting they’d kissed. Still, she swore it went no further.
I desperately wanted to believe her, but a gnawing instinct screamed she was hiding more. The next morning, she casually mentioned she’d “forgotten” her glasses at Jake’s. That hit me like a slap—suspicion flared. No one with bad eyesight takes off their glasses to watch a movie. It felt like a flimsy excuse, a thread in her web of deceit.
For a week, my soul was ripped apart by tormenting doubts. I kept asking if she was keeping secrets, but she clammed up, her silence louder than any confession.
Why had she even gone to my friend’s house? Why ignore my calls? I’m convinced no decent woman, drunk or not, would traipse off to a guy’s place in the dead of night!
I couldn’t take it anymore—I stormed over to Jake’s to confront him. Bursting in like a hurricane, I accused him point-blank: “How could you take advantage of her when she was drunk and sleep with my girlfriend?!”
Jake didn’t even try to deny it. He confessed immediately, insisting it was a one-time mistake, that there were no feelings involved, and that they both regretted it deeply.
Staggering out of his place, I fired off a text to Emily: “Jake told me everything.”
She called me instantly, sobbing hysterically, begging for forgiveness. She echoed Jake’s story—it was a one-off, a terrible lapse, and it wouldn’t happen again.
Now I’m lost, torn apart, unsure of what to do. Can a single mistake end everything? I’ve put our relationship on ice for now—I need space to think.
I love her with every fiber of my being and know we’re all capable of screwing up when we’re wasted. I want to bury this nightmare, but can I ever trust her again? Did our relationship mean so little to her that she’d carelessly follow some near-stranger home?
And do I even want this kind of relationship? There are plenty of honest women out there. If she truly loved me, why didn’t she leave with me instead of staying behind with a bunch of drunk guys? Is a drunken betrayal really all I deserve?
What should I do—forgive her or let her go and erase her from my life?
