Loved ones often surprise us, sometimes in unexpected and shocking ways. I believed that Alice and I had a remarkably trusting and harmonious relationship, but life had other plans.
I was 32 years old when I met an extraordinary woman. She was walking her dog in an autumn park near my house, radiating warmth, comfort, and a sense of home. We struck up a conversation—Alice rarely visited my neighborhood but loved our park. We started seeing each other more often, though sometimes we’d lose touch for a week, caught up in the whirlwind of work and daily life. Alice never complained about a lack of attention from me. She was remarkably understanding and a great listener.
I was as excited as a child every time we met.
Many said our relationship was unusual—we didn’t live together and often spent weekends apart. She rarely appeared with me in public, explaining that it made her uncomfortable.
But we had our evenings, curled up watching a movie or fiercely battling in online games. We never talked about work, which was refreshing—it allowed us to escape the daily grind. Alice never demanded or asked for anything, and with each passing day, I fell deeper in love. I didn’t want to let her go in the evenings, but we had an agreement about nights from the start. I respected her choice.
We had been together for a year and a half, which flew by in an instant. Honestly, I was already thinking about proposing, hoping to turn our unusual relationship into a family.
One evening changed everything.
A couple of months earlier, I had been put in charge of a company contract, and our proposed terms satisfied our partners. To celebrate the deal, we organized a corporate event attended by employees from both companies. I was chatting with David, a man I’d been negotiating with throughout the project. He was a pleasure to work with—intelligent, thoughtful, and skilled at his job.
We were discussing details of future collaboration when, excusing himself, he stepped away to answer a phone call and went to meet his wife. Listening to congratulations from my boss, I didn’t notice when they returned.
What followed felt like a blur. I saw Alice pale as our eyes met. I don’t understand why I didn’t say anything then, why I didn’t ask questions. David introduced his wife, and all I could manage was, “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” That fateful evening shattered my dreams and plans. Suddenly, all of Alice’s odd behaviors made sense: her reluctance to appear with me in public, her firm refusal to spend nights together. I cursed myself for not paying attention to these signs earlier. I don’t remember how I left the venue, only that I nervously lit a cigarette. A text from Alice arrived, begging me not to ruin her life.
She pleaded with me not to tell her husband, saying that if I felt anything for her, I’d stay silent. She apologized, swearing she hadn’t anticipated how things would turn out, that she never expected our connection to last so long, and so on. I went home, unable to stay at the celebration. At home, I was torn between wanting to go back, confront her, and unleash everything—maybe even punch her husband. I loved Alice, and in that moment, I hated her more than anything in the world.
I never saw her again. She stopped coming to our park, changed her contact information, and vanished from my life. I quit my job and lived off the savings I’d set aside for our wedding for a while.
It took immense effort to pull myself out of the depths of depression, but I eventually found a new job. I mustered the strength to move forward and try not to look back. But I can say with certainty that a part of me died that evening.
This happened three years ago, and I still can’t let any woman get close to me. Every time I see a beautiful woman, I think of Alice and the excruciating pain of betrayal.
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