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The Other Woman.

By Guest · June 8, 2018 · True Stories

A stick figure hanging onto a heart.

Lover...

Oh my precious lover, how I fantasize of the life we should be living right now. One where I’m yours and your mine and this life is ours. “One day”, I whisper through bated breath. HOPE keeps this engine running. Fueled by passion and a misplaced belief that you keep your word. Yet, this promise of a US is the only thing keeping me sane right now. 


But Lover...

What is a promise other than fleeting words spoken in moments of ecstasy? Lover, how do I trust that you’re not making a fool out of me when you tell me that your love belongs to me and me only? Is there any certainty in your words when you put stars in my eyes with promises of a future together? I say, through puckered lips, that I want it all now, and you say that I’m addicted to instant gratification. That good things take time and patience and trust.


But Lover...

How do I trust you when I know that just by being with me, you’re automatically breaking another woman’s trust. Those promises you made to her, “for better or for worse”. Our very relationship is proof that you can’t keep your word. The feeling of your naked torso and fingers running through my hair right now is based on a lie. I am a lie. An untruth. 


Lover...

I don’t mean to be so hard on you, after all, nobody’s perfect. Yet, I can’t get rid of these feelings of guilt and worthlessness. It’s like I am a toy in a fantasy land, to be used at your disposal, before you go back to your “real” life, with your “real” family. Lover, I want a family too. I want to be more than just a hope, a dream, a backup plan, or a drug that you use to escape the mundane reality of your own life.


Lover...

I despise the woman that gets to spend her nights next to you. I envy the fact that she gets to call you “husband”, and not “Lover”. I keep thinking that she is the obstacle in our path. If only she weren’t in the picture, oh what a pretty painting our lives would be! And I’m not the only one - you take every opportunity to villainize her. You’re the victim and she’s the snake. Lover, do you really think that by bashing her, you make me feel better about myself? Do you honestly think that it makes me believe and trust that I am the only woman you want your life and she is merely a hindrance? 


But Lover...

I don’t really hate her, not at all. I pity her.

I feel hypocritical whenever I have to comfort and console a friend who’s been cheated on. I feel terribly guilty as if I was the woman her husband was unfaithful with. I dry up her tears and listen to her venting and painful pleas, and I feel as if it is directed at us, Lover. See, I don’t believe that your wife is the villain, but rather the victim of our lies, of our unchecked passion.


Lover...

I have no true place in your life. I am a sin, a betrayal, an abomination. Lover, you have sent my moral compass spinning out of control. And it gets harder and harder to justify THIS as an act of love. What is THIS, that we have? Is THIS something we owe ourselves to explore, or is THIS an act of destruction? You see Lover, the only person winning here is you. You idly stand back and watch the destruction of two women playing tug of war with your heart. The destruction of our self-worth, our confidence, our belief in what love is and what marriage is supposed to mean. Lover, you’re taking away our faith and optimism and will to live. So I ask you if THIS is all worth it? Or does the promise of “us” come with a bittersweet ending.


Lover, my lover, love of my life...

I think all these thoughts with my head rested on your chest, appreciating every one of your heartbeats. Too scared to communicate these things to you as you may call me neurotic or negative or me favourite one, “You’re nagging me like my wife does”. Because why should my feelings matter? Why should I voice my concerns to someone who isn’t committed to me? You see, I’m just The Other Woman. And your respect for me comes with limitations.