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’m writing this because everything inside me burns—with hurt, with anger, with rage at myself for still loving someone who crushed my heart like dirt under his shoe. I don’t know how to unlearn loving a traitor who just erased me from his life like I was a temporary mistake, not part of his story.
James and I had known each other since we were kids. We started dating in secondary school, then went to university together in Manchester. We shared a rented flat like a proper little family. Sometimes we couldn’t even afford food—there were nights we fell asleep hungry—but it was enough just being together. He’d hold my hand, I’d press my head against his chest, and every night before bed, he’d whisper, “I love you.” Those words kept me warmer than any blanket, more than any security ever could.
After graduation, we decided to stay in Manchester. We already talked about marriage, kids, saving up for a big house somewhere on the outskirts—with a garden, a dog, a porch swing. James got a job at a big international firm, while I struggled through interview after interview, feeling like nobody wanted me. Eventually, I landed an office job with way less pay, but I was happy—now I could contribute to our little life too. Our rented flat slowly filled with cosy little touches—a throw blanket, curtains, mugs. I was building a home, even if it wasn’t ours.
James climbed the career ladder fast, and soon he was being sent on business trips all over Europe—Paris, Brussels, Amsterdam. He’d be gone every few months, coming back drained and distant, but I told myself it was just exhaustion. Then, one evening, he dropped the news—he was being transferred to the Stockholm office for a year. I broke down crying—a year apart felt like forever. But James just hardened. No hugs, no comforting words, no promises to wait. That night, for the first time, he didn’t say he loved me. I already felt it then—something had shifted—but I refused to believe it.
When he left, we said goodbye coldly. No tears from him, no “I’ll miss you.” Only I knew how hard it was not to drop to my knees and scream, *Stay*. A few days later, I got an email. Cold. Detached. He thanked me for everything we had, said he should’ve told me sooner but lacked the courage—he’d been having an affair with a colleague. And, oh, she was in Stockholm too. He wished me happiness and asked me not to hate him. That was it. No apologies. No explanations. No right to reply.
I cried for days. 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 nothing but silence and questions. I wasn’t just grieving *him*—I was grieving all our years, all our dreams, all the “somedays” that would never happen now.
And I know—he doesn’t deserve my tears. A man who doesn’t have the guts to end things properly 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 someone else, how to fall in love again. I flinch at smiles now. I’ve become guarded, closed-off, suspicious. But one day, that’ll change. I know the hurt will fade. I’ll dream again. For now, I’m just learning to live without him. Learning to breathe without his scent. Learning to love *myself*. And that—that’s how I survive.