I didn't see it coming.
Not like this.
It wasn't a stranger.
It was her.
Someone I trusted, someone I laughed with, someone I thought I could confide in.
And he ..he gave her the warmth I craved from him.
The soft touches, the lingering kisses, the whispered words I had begged for.
I saw them together once.
Not boldly, not publicly just a quiet, intimate universe I had once imagined for myself.
He laughed at her jokes the way he used to laugh at mine.
He held her hand the way he held mine in the beginning,
the way I had memorized as a blueprint for love.
He spoiled her.
The way I had always wanted to be spoiled.
The way I deserved to be spoiled.
And I… I stood there.
A silent witness to the life I thought I had.
A life I had built on faith, on small kindnesses, on hope.
And my chest broke in slow increments,
my tears tracing invisible lines down a face I forced to remain calm.
I cried later, alone,
the sheets absorbing my sorrow like they had absorbed all my whispered prayers.
I cried for him.
I cried for her.
I cried for the version of me he had once promised would be enough.
And I cried for the quiet truth:
sometimes love is not enough,
and sometimes the person who says "I love you"
does not mean it the way you need them to.
I learned something that night.
Love can be kind and cruel in the same heartbeat.
Love can give glimpses of paradise and shove you into hell,
and sometimes,
the person you trusted most will show you exactly what you're missing—
and leave your hands empty.