It wasn’t what I expected.

The end came like a thief in the night. It bore through our mountain of trust and carved a valley of uncertainty amidst our seven-year-long union.

I couldn’t believe it. When I opened the discovered letters, my mind searched for substantiation even as it desperately issued denial at the merciless betrayal. Still, the words from the pages, they clawed at my mind: Does he suspect something? Are you sure you’ve kept my letters hidden from him? We’ve got to keep it secret from him for now. He mustn’t know.

The search for my lover ended in failure. Cold reality seeped in, haplessly aided by the sight of her empty closet and cabinet.

In subsequent nights, I howled to the winds at this tribulation. As the last speck of my dwindling hope trickled down the hourglass of nothingness, a new seed of optimism sprouted in my desert in the form of a message delivered frigidly to my lost world. She wanted to see me.

It’s not over yet. I gathered myself, mustered my remaining strength.

She came like she said she would. And so did her new consort. I stared daggers at him, murderous intent restrained only by confusion and what little sanity left. He nodded and quietly walked away.

I stared at her and the question leaped from my tongue even before I thought of it. It burst through — angry, demanding, pleading — “Why?”

She just stood — a ghost of my waking — silent, unmoving, unreal. “I’m sorry,” was all she said. And she, too, walked away.

For a moment, it seemed my heart had grasped everything. It seemed my heart knew what to do in order to survive. Not really.

Can I bear the sight of them grieving at my wake? I’ll never know.


This piece originally appeared in Paperbag Origami as a creative writing exercise.