**Diary Entry**
They say the anticipation of happiness is sweeter than happiness itself. Because while you’re waiting, hoping, imagining—you’re already happy. Yet the moment you hold it, it’s fleeting. Before you’ve even drunk it in, it’s no longer happiness—just ordinary, familiar life. And then you start waiting again.
I had everything: a flat in London, a sleek Audi, a respectable job with a solid salary, a wife—a beautiful one at that. We’d been sweethearts since secondary school, our first love defying odds to become a family.
Then there was my Lizzie, four years old, my sunshine. My wife stayed home with her, and I adored that little girl beyond words.
What more could a man want? Life was good. But that’s the trouble with humans—when we have it all, we itch for more.
My wife and I had settled into an easy rhythm over the years. We understood each other without speaking, passion cooling into something steady and warm. Every morning, I’d gulp down the strong black coffee waiting for me after my shower, slip into crisply ironed shirts that smelled of sea breeze, kiss her cheek in thanks, and drive off to work. Evenings brought a home-cooked meal. Weekends were for barbecues at my parents’ cottage in the Cotswolds or sledging in winter. I was grateful—not many had it so smooth.
And yet.
A new hire joined the office—Molly Prescott. Young, fresh-faced, with doe-like dark eyes that seemed to flicker between shyness and mischief. Her name rolled off the tongue like a melody. Maybe it was those eyes, or the thrill of something new, but she lodged herself in my mind. My heart recognized her—or so I told myself—and thrummed with the promise of happiness.
I started “accidentally” bumping into her—by the kettle, in the lift, at lunch. She sought me out too, I was sure of it. One morning, I lingered in my car outside the office, waiting for her to stride past. Then, like fate, I “ran into” her at the entrance, holding the door like a gentleman.
In the lift, I stole glances. Sometimes I caught her looking back, quick and curious. But we never spoke—not until one day, when it was just the two of us. I asked about her job, the weather, weekend plans. She answered with a smile, playful and knowing.
Autumn faded into winter. The office Christmas party loomed, and I pinned my hopes on it. No curfew, no questions if I stumbled home at dawn.
I didn’t let Molly out of my sight. When the music started, I cut in before anyone else could ask her to dance. Holding her close, my heart raced like it had years ago, at a school disco, when I’d first danced with Helen—my wife. Molly’s dark eyes promised everything.
Flushed from dancing and wine, we slipped outside for air. I suggested ditching the party. She agreed without hesitation. We grabbed our coats, laughing as we dashed into the cold.
The security guard watched us go, scowling. No one had invited him to the party. He’d been stuck in his booth, forgotten—no champagne, no chocolates to soften the slight. He sighed and buried himself in a crossword.
Molly and I wandered London, chatting about nothing and everything. I skirted mention of my marriage; she pretended it didn’t matter. With her, life felt light. “Lucky, lucky,” my heart beat in time with our steps on the frosty pavement.
I grew tired, regretting leaving my car at the office. “Do you live *outside* the city?” I finally joked.
“The edge of town, actually,” she laughed. “New builds. Let’s get a cab.”
At her doorstep, I stalled. The drink had worn off, and guilt whispered that I could still make it home to read Lizzie her bedtime story. But then Molly offered coffee. “Just a quick one,” I told myself, sending the cab away.
We never made it to coffee.
Hours later, I stood at her window. The night was pitch-black—no stars, no streetlamps, just darkness so thick it stole my breath. Molly joined me, and for a moment, it felt like we were the only two people in the universe, floating above the snow-glazed city. It was everything I’d dreamed of. Yet leaving was harder than I expected. Not for guilt—but because I didn’t want to risk getting caught. Not yet.
I sneaked home at half-two. The streetlight through the window showed Helen lying still, eyelids clamped shut. I knew she was awake. She knew I knew. We played the game anyway. I slid into bed without touching her.
I thought I’d lie awake, replaying the night. Instead, I slept instantly. Helen and I never rowed—no raised voices, no scenes. Thin walls, after all. Even if I confessed, I doubted she’d shout.
Colleagues envied me. I’d seen men drag themselves to work after domestic storms. Helen never humiliated me, never policed my drinks. We were the picture-perfect couple. Until Molly.
The next morning, I woke giddy, humming in the shower. Helen handed me coffee, tilted her cheek for a kiss.
After that, I met Molly at her flat. The outskirts were safe—no prying eyes. Only young women and cash-strapped families lived there.
Guilt gnawed at me sometimes. It wasn’t that Helen was cruel or cold—she wasn’t. So why? I weighed it all: Helen, Lizzie, our life on one side; Molly’s dizzying passion on the other. She made me feel alive. How could I give that up?
A year passed. But even sweets grow stale. The thrill waned. More and more, I craved quiet evenings at home. Molly exhausted me.
I’d known Helen since we were kids. I could predict her every move. Molly was wild—would she ever settle? And Lizzie… I had too much to lose.
Then Molly started asking when we’d be together. I mumbled excuses about Lizzie needing time. Molly pressed harder. Doubt coiled in my gut. I’d heard of mistresses going nuclear—showing up, spilling secrets. The thought made me recoil.
The scales tipped. Helen was steady, safe. Molly was a storm. I tried to end it, but one kiss undid me. If only I could merge them—Helen’s calm, Molly’s fire.
One day, at my desk, I drafted breakup lines in my head. How to let Molly down gently? Then—pain. A vise clamped my chest. I couldn’t breathe. I stood, stumbled, and then—nothing.
Voices swam through the fog:
“He hung on longer than most would’ve…”
“Too many women, that’s what did him in.”
“Wake up, don’t leave me,” Molly’s voice wept.
“Don’t leave *us*,” Helen whispered.
“Daddy, read to me,” Lizzie sobbed. I fought to open my eyes, to reassure her.
“God, am I *dead*? I’m only thirty-two. I’ll fix everything—just let me live,” I begged.
“Really? No more lies? You’ll end it with Molly?” A voice, clear and quiet, cut through the noise.
“Yes, I promise. Who are you?”
“You can’t see me. You’d go blind.”
“Thirty-two… I’m not ready… My daughter—” Panic rose. Then—air, sharp and brutal, filled my lungs. I was alive.
“Doctor, he’s awake!” someone shouted.
Light burned my eyes. Helen leaned over me, her face blurred by tears.
Molly visited twice, hovering in corners, crying. She left quickly, afraid to face Helen.
Two weeks later, I went home—on leave, but happy. Playing with Lizzie, reading to her. Helen was kindness itself. How could I have risked this? For what? A passing thrill?
Then, one night, my phone buzzed.
“Hi. I miss you. When will I see you?” Molly’s voice was soft.
“I can’t talk now.”
“She’s there, isn’t she?” A pause. “I just… I miss you.”
I had my chance. *End it now.* But I didn’t.
“Tomorrow,” I muttered, hanging up.
“Who was that? Work?” Helen stood in the doorway, towel wrapped around her hair.
“Yeah. Checking when I’ll be back.”
*Tomorrow. One last time. Then it’s over.*
But the pain returned—that same crushing weight, the darkness. A warning? I grabbed my phone.
*“I can’t see you again. Ever.”* Sent. Blocked.
There. Easy.
Because I want to live.
