This is the worst feeling. I’m in a haze between awake and asleep, and I don’t think that there’s anything that will make me feel better. Not food, not sex, not music, not yoga, not work. I’m at work because it kinda takes my mind off of everything, but I feel sick to my stomach, and I either want to cry or sleep, but I have too much pride to do either. I’m supposed to be strong, I’m supposed to not let this get to me. “Jane can get through this all on her own.”
I don’t know how I let you do this to me. It’s all of the pain I felt every time I knew you cared about her more, compounded. When you told me that you were over her a long time ago, I shouldn’t have listened. I’ll bet that if I were to call you right now, you’d quickly hide your phone from her and say “Sorry, I don’t know why she’s calling,” and keep on with your weekend. Will you hold her hand under the stars and sing John Legend songs, the way you’ve done before with me, because it makes her feel like somehow she’s special and that there’s some soulful connection between you two?
I know that I’m accusing you based only on the testimony of one person, who heard it from someone, who heard it from someone else. It’s flimsy evidence compared to all the time we’ve spent together, all of the happy moments and all those times you’ve proven to me that you love me. But you didn’t deny it. You didn’t say “No, I didn’t sleep with her. Please believe me. I love you.” All you could say was “Mary wouldn’t talk about something like that”—which leads me to think you just didn’t expect anyone to find out.
I feel awful.