She seemed perfect. But she became my greatest pain.
The first time I saw Emily, she appeared to be the woman from my dreams—gentle, refined, with eyes that seemed to hold entire worlds. We grew close quickly. I took her to my favourite spots in York, cooked simple meals at home, laughed over trivial things. I was certain: she was the one. And when I asked her to marry me, I didn’t hesitate for a second.
The wedding was warm and heartfelt. A small gathering of family, a white dress, a quiet dance under soft music. Life felt peaceful. Emily was caring, always attentive, slightly distant—but I dismissed it as part of her nature. Soon, though, cracks began to show in that serenity.
First, she started staying late after work. “Meetings with colleagues,” she’d say, or “unexpected projects.” Sometimes, her stories didn’t add up. I tried to ignore my suspicions. Until one day, I noticed her phone—the one she never let out of her sight—left unlocked on the kitchen counter. I hadn’t meant to pry… but something pushed me forward.
I saw the messages. A name—James. The words were unmistakable: *”Soon. I promise. I miss your touch.”* Emily replied with the same fire. My chest tightened. Who was he? What was between them?
The next day, I dug deeper. Found an old social media account of hers. Photos from raucous parties, sun-soaked beach shots, unfamiliar men. Posts dripping with hints of passion, recklessness, fleeting affairs. The Emily I knew and the woman in those pictures—they were strangers. I couldn’t believe it. But I sensed the truth was worse than I imagined.
A fortnight later, I found her journal. By accident—or perhaps fate intervened. On the cover: *”Do not read.”* I opened it anyway. Every page cut deeper:
*”He thinks I’m good-hearted. He doesn’t know how hungry I am for feeling. For touch. One will never be enough.”*
*”James asked me to stay. I nearly did. But he has a family. And I—I have too many desires to name.”*
*”Daniel is so naïve. Thinks we’ll last forever. If only he knew about Matthew…”*
I sat on the floor, tears burning. My wife. Mine—and yet never mine at all. Three men. Secrets unfurling. A life built on lies.
I installed tracking software on her phone. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, she really did leave town. The same hotel. The same room. Always James. And then there was Matthew. Married. She wrote to him: *”You make me feel alive. But don’t ask more of me.”*
I was shattered. Still, I couldn’t confront her. Until one night, I snapped:
*”I know everything.”*
She went pale. Didn’t deny it. Just cried. I waited for explanations. Defences. All she choked out was:
*”I’m terrified of being alone. I can’t just be a wife. I need more. I need to feel wanted. You’re kind. But you don’t set me on fire.”*
That was worse than the betrayal itself. It was an admission: I was no one in her world. A safe harbour. Dependable. But not the man she truly desired.
A week later, we filed for divorce. I left. She stayed in the flat—still tangled in her own web.
Her final message read:
*”I’m sorry. You were real. And I—I was just searching. Never finding.”*
I write this not for revenge. The anger is long gone. I just want someone, someday, to read it and understand: the masks we wear can be beautiful. But beneath them often lie souls we’ll never truly know.
