I stared at my phone, the glowing screen illuminating the confession I had just typed out. “I cheated on you.” My thumb hovered over the send button, a chasm opening up beneath me with every passing second. This wasn’t a story I’d ever imagined myself writing, let alone living.
It had happened weeks ago, a blur of a night out with friends, too many drinks, and a moment of weakness I still couldn’t fully comprehend. He was someone I barely knew, a fleeting connection that had left a permanent stain on my conscience. The guilt had been a constant companion since then, a suffocating weight that made every “I love you” from Mark feel like a lie.
Mark. My Mark. He was kind, dependable, and loved me fiercely. We had plans – a future laid out in shared dreams and quiet understanding. How could I have jeopardized all of that for a momentary lapse in judgment?
Every day, the secret festered. I’d flinch at sudden movements, convinced he could see the truth in my eyes. I’d overcompensate, showering him with affection, hoping to drown out the gnawing self-reproach. But it was always there, a whisper in the back of my mind: You don’t deserve him.
Tonight, the whisper had become a roar. I couldn’t live with it anymore. The thought of him finding out from someone else, or worse, continuing to live in blissful ignorance while I carried this burden, was unbearable. He deserved the truth, no matter how much it shattered us.
My finger trembled, then pressed down. Send.
The message delivered instantly. My breath hitched. Now there was nothing left but to wait for the fallout. The silence stretched, a deafening roar in my ears. I imagined him reading it, his face crumbling, his trust evaporating.
Then, my phone buzzed. A new message from Mark. My eyes squeezed shut. This was it. The end.
I opened them slowly, bracing myself. But the message wasn’t what I expected. It was a single word, followed by an ellipsis: “Call…”
My heart hammered against my ribs. Call. Not “It’s over.” Not “How could you?” Just… call.
I stared at the word, a flicker of something unidentifiable in its brevity. Was it anger? Disappointment? Or something else entirely? I didn’t know. But I knew one thing: the hardest part, confessing, was over. Now, the real conversation, the one that would determine our future, was about to begin. I took a shaky breath and dialed his number.
