My companion whispers that he loves me, but he has never chosen me.
Its been three years now. Three years of meeting in secret, like ghosts that haunt old corridors. Three years of promisesrepeating themselves like a skipping record. Our relationship only exists in the moments when his wife isnt there, a flickering candle in a draughty, empty house.
I didnt stumble into his world knowing he was married. The truth crept in after a few monthsI found out he and his wife still played at being a normal couple, going about London as if nothing was amiss. But by then, my heart was a tangled garden.
Right from the start, everything was ruled by rules and riddles. We saw each other only on particular days, at certain hours, always in unfamiliar pubs, parks where no one would know us. He could never stay the night. Never travel away with me. I could never post a picture online. Not even a hint.
If I messaged after dusk and got no replyI understood.
If he vanished over the weekendsI knew too.
His real life lived elsewhere. Mine revolved around the empty spaces he left behind, like a diary full only of cancellations.
Time and again Id ask him outright, with the calmness of someone already tiredWould you leave her?
And always, his answer was the same: Yes, but not yet.
He was waiting for the right time. It isnt simple, hed say. Things to sort. She relies on me. I dont want to hurt her.
I grew to hate these words, they turned into a dreary chorus rattling around my head. There was always another reason. Another deadline. Another hope.
I was always the one shifting herself for him.
I changed my shifts at work. I said no to weekends away with friends. I trained myself not to ask questionsjust in case asking meant an argument. When he whisked her off to Bath or Brighton, I stayed quiet. When he celebrated anniversaries with her, I pretended the days were just days. When he appeared at my door after rowing with his wife, I listened, offered tea and sympathy.
I was the one doing the understanding.
Doing the listening.
Doing the waiting.
Yet never, not once, did he really choose me.
There were times I thoughtthis time Ill do it. Ill leave. He said hed spoken to a solicitor; I reminded him I wasnt happy. I started searching for a flat again. Hoped again. Gambled everything again.
But something always got in the wayhis job, his family, a few quid short, it isnt the moment.
And so I stayed. Stuck in a story that doesnt move forward.
Meanwhile, life outside mine continues at a different pace.
My girlfriends get married, move house, make plans.
I used to lie, say Im single. Or that its nothing serious. Cant tell the truthpeople would arch an eyebrow, say what everyone always says. And still I stayed. Not because Im naïve. But because I loved him. Or thought I did. Sometimes, I dont know anymore.
The worst pain wasnt that he never left her.
The real sting was that he never stood up for me.
Whenever she got suspicioushed vanish.
If things were tense at homeI became a ghost.
If it was ever a choice between looking at me or saving face for hershe won every time.
I wasnt a choice.
I was a spare option, shelved, waiting.
Im still herebut Im different now.
I want him, but Im exhausted.
Tired of understanding.
Of waiting.
Of settling for the crumbs of his time and affection.
I need some advice to find a conclusion, once and for all.
Does anyone else find themselves spinning in stories like this?
What would you say to a woman, if she sat before you, wrapped in this dream and asking for an answer?
