He left for abroad with his mistress while we made 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 love for a traitor who simply erased me from his life as if I were a temporary mistake, not part of his destiny.
James and I had known each other since childhood. We started dating in secondary school, and later we both enrolled at university in London. We shared a rented flat like a real family. Sometimes we barely had enough for food, even going to bed hungry, but it was enough—just being together. He held my hand, I buried my face in his chest, and every night before sleep, he whispered, “I love you.” Those words warmed me more than a blanket and meant more than stability.
After graduation, we decided to stay in London. We spoke of weddings, of children, dreamed of saving for a big house somewhere on the outskirts—with a garden, a dog, a porch swing. James found work at a major international firm, while I bounced between interviews for months, feeling unwanted. Eventually, I took an office job for far less pay but was happy—now I could contribute to our life together. Little comforts appeared in our rented flat—a throw blanket, curtains, mugs. I built a home, even if it wasn’t ours.
James climbed the career ladder fast, and soon he was traveling across Europe for work—Paris, Vienna, Milan. Each time, he returned distant and exhausted, but I blamed it on stress. Then, one evening, he told me he’d been transferred to the Stockholm office for a year. I broke down—a year apart felt like forever. But James hardened. No embrace, no comfort, no promises. That night, for the first time, he didn’t say he loved me. I knew then—something had changed—but I refused to believe it.
When he left, our goodbye was cold. No tears from him, no “I’ll miss you.” Only I knew how hard I fought not to fall to my knees and scream, “Stay!” Days later, his letter arrived. Detached, clinical. He thanked me for our time, said he should’ve spoken sooner—he’d been having an affair with a colleague. And she, conveniently, was also in Stockholm now. He wished me happiness, asked me not to hate him. That was it. No regrets. No explanations. No right to reply.
I wept for days, starved, sleepless, staring at the ceiling, unable to grasp how real love could be abandoned so easily. The worst part? He couldn’t even say it to my face. Just vanished, leaving emptiness and unanswered questions. It hurt not just for me, but for all our years, all our dreams, all the “somedays” that would never come true.
And I know—he doesn’t deserve my tears. A man who can’t 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. I flinch at a glance, at a smile. I’ve become wary, closed, suspicious. But one day, it will change. I feel it—time will dull the pain, and I’ll dream again. For now, I’m learning to live without him. Learning to breathe without his scent. Learning to love myself. And that—that is my salvation.
