He left the country with his mistress while we were making plans for a family and children.
I know he doesn’t deserve my tears, but my heart refuses to forget.
I write these words because everything inside me burns — with hurt, with pain, with anger at myself for still loving the man who crushed my heart like dust beneath his shoe. I don’t know how to unlearn loving a traitor who simply erased me from his life, as if I were a temporary mistake rather than part of his fate.
Thomas and I had known each other since childhood. We started dating in secondary school and later went to uni in Manchester together. We shared a rented flat like a proper family. Sometimes we didn’t even have enough money for food, going to bed hungry, but it didn’t matter — as long as we were together. He’d hold my hand, I’d press close to his chest, and every night before bed, he’d whisper, “I love you.” Those words felt warmer than any blanket and more precious than stability.
After uni, we decided to stay in Manchester. We’d already begun talking about weddings, children, saving up for a big house on the outskirts—something with a garden, a dog, a porch swing. Thomas landed a job at a big multinational firm, while I struggled through interview after interview, feeling like no one wanted me. Eventually, I took an office job for far less pay, but I was happy—finally, I could contribute. Our rented flat slowly filled with little comforts — a throw blanket, curtains, mugs. I was building a home, even if it wasn’t ours.
Thomas climbed the corporate ladder quickly, and soon he was sent on business trips across Europe. Every few months, he’d jet off — to Brussels, to Amsterdam, to Geneva. Each time he returned, distant and exhausted, but I chalked it up to work stress. Then, one evening, he told me he’d been transferred to their Stockholm office for a year. I burst into tears—a year apart felt like forever. But Thomas stayed cold. No hug, no reassurance, no promise to wait. That night, for the first time, he didn’t say he loved me. Deep down, I knew something had changed—I just didn’t want to believe it.
When he left, our goodbye was stiff. No tears from him, no “I’ll miss you.” Only I knew how hard it was not to drop to my knees and beg him to stay. A few days later, I got his email. Cold, detached. He thanked me for everything we’d shared, said he’d owed me the truth sooner but lacked the courage: he’d been having an affair with a colleague. And, as it happened, she was in Stockholm too. He wished me happiness and asked me not to hold a grudge. That was it. No regrets. No explanations. No right to reply.
I cried for days. I didn’t eat, didn’t sleep, just stared at the ceiling, wondering how someone could walk away from real love so easily. The worst part? He couldn’t even say it to my face. Just vanished, leaving only emptiness and unanswered questions. I wasn’t just hurting for myself—I mourned all our years, all the dreams we’d shared, the “one days” that would never come.
And I know—he doesn’t deserve my tears. A man who hasn’t got the spine to end things like an adult isn’t a man at all. He’s a coward. But my heart won’t listen to reason. I don’t know how to trust again, how to let love in. Even a glance, a smile—they scare me now. I’m different—guarded, closed-off, wary. But one day, that’ll change. I know time will dull the ache, and I’ll dream again. For now, though, I’m learning to live without him. Learning to breathe without his scent. Learning to love myself. That’s my salvation.
