He left for another country with his mistress, while we made plans for a family and children.
I know he doesn’t deserve my tears, but my heart refuses to forget.
I write these words because everything inside me burns—with hurt, with pain, with anger at myself for still loving a man who crushed my heart like dirt beneath his shoe. I don’t know how to unlearn love for a traitor who simply erased me from his life, as if I were nothing more than a temporary mistake, not someone who was meant to be part of his story.
Liam and I had known each other since childhood. We started dating in secondary school and later went to university together in London. We shared a rented flat, living like a real family. Sometimes there wasn’t enough money for food—some nights, we’d go to bed hungry—but all that mattered was that we had each other. He’d hold my hand, I’d press my face against his chest, and every night before sleep, he’d whisper, *“I love you.”* Those words warmed me more than any blanket, more than any comfort.
After graduation, we decided to stay in London. We talked about marriage, children, dreamed of saving for a proper house somewhere in the outskirts—with a garden, a dog, a porch swing. Liam landed a job at a big international firm, while I bounced between interviews for months, feeling like no one wanted me. Eventually, I took an office job with a much smaller salary, but I was happy—now I could contribute too. Little things made our rented place feel like home—a throw blanket, curtains, mismatched mugs. I was building a life, even in a place that wasn’t truly ours.
Liam moved up fast at work, and soon he was being sent on business trips across Europe. Every few months, he’d fly off—Paris, Vienna, Rome. Each time, he’d return distant, exhausted, but I chalked it up to stress. Then one evening, he told me he was being transferred to Stockholm for a year. I couldn’t hold back the tears—a year apart felt like forever. But Liam just hardened. No embrace, no reassurance, no promises. That night, for the first time, he didn’t tell me he loved me. I knew, then, that something had shifted—but I refused to believe it.
When he left, our goodbye was cold. No tears from him, no *“I’ll miss you.”* Only I knew how much it took not to drop to my knees and scream, *“Stay!”* A few days later, I got his email. Curt, detached. He thanked me for everything we’d shared, said he should have told me sooner but lacked the courage—he was having an affair with a colleague. Oh, and she was in Stockholm too. He wished me happiness and told me not to hold a grudge. That was it. No apologies. No explanations. No right to reply.
I cried for days. Couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, just stared at the ceiling, wondering how someone could walk away from real love like it meant nothing. The worst part? He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face. Just vanished, leaving behind silence and questions with no answers. I grieved not just for myself, but for all the years we’d shared, all the dreams we’d built, every *“someday”* that would never come true.
And I *know*—he doesn’t deserve my tears. A man who lacks the spine to end things properly isn’t a man at all. He’s a coward. But my heart doesn’t listen to reason. I don’t know how to trust again, how to let love back in. Now, even a glance, even a smile makes me wary. I’ve become someone else—guarded, closed off, afraid. But one day, that will change. I feel it—time will pass, the pain will fade, and I’ll dream again. Just for now, I’m learning to live without him. To breathe without the scent of his skin. To love myself. That, at least, is my salvation.