I know it doesn’t really matter in the grand scheme of things. And I know I’m probably just being foolish, but for the longest time, I truly believed she loved me.
I never expected the day would come when I’d find her with another man—inside the house we built together. A house full of our things, our memories. And there she was, giving herself to someone else. The reality of it hit like a punch to the gut. The truth I had denied for so long was right in front of me.
She had moved on. She really was that kind of person.
What hurt even more was the thought that she probably didn’t even love him. He was likely just another guy, someone she met at a bar, someone who didn’t mean anything to her. Yet there she was, and here I am, left to sit in the wreckage of everything we once had. I’m the one suffering, and she doesn’t even care. I don’t matter to her. Not anymore.
Maybe I never did.
I don’t know if anyone truly understands that kind of pain. The pain of realizing you’ve been replaced so easily, of knowing that someone who once meant everything to you now sees you as nothing. The pain of seeing the life you imagined with someone crumble before your eyes, while they move on without a second thought.
It’s unbearable.
And yet, that moment—the moment I saw her with him—made one thing clear: I have to move on. I have to stop living in this fantasy that she’ll come back or that she ever truly loved me. She doesn’t. She never did.
I’ve spent so much time lying to myself, holding onto the hope that maybe, just maybe, she still cared. But she doesn’t. And I have to accept that.
No one is going to take care of me. No one is going to be there for me the way I wanted her to be. It’s just me now. It always will be.
I have to learn to live with that truth. I’ll always be alone.