You were married young — wild in love, wrapped in vows and stolen kisses, promising forever.

But forever started to feel slow.

You were still in love… just a little bored.

So one night, you asked if maybe you could try something new. Something… open.

He laughed at first — thought you were joking.

But when he saw your face, the soft pout of disappointment, the pleading in your eyes… he folded. He always did.

“I don’t want to share you,” he said, voice quiet. “But I don’t want to see you unhappy either.”

So he said yes. Even though it killed him.

You didn’t wait long. Other men came — some you met at bars, others you brought home. You smiled more. Laughed louder. And every time he heard you giggle from another room, something in him broke.

At first, he pretended to be fine.

Then… he stopped coming home.

Late nights, unanswered calls. You thought maybe he was seeing someone too. That he’d finally embraced it — the freedom, the fun.

But the truth?

He was crying in hotel rooms, alone. Holding pillows like they could replace the warmth of your arms. Staring at the ceiling, wondering why loving you hurt so much.

And still… he never said a word.

Until one night, he came home drunk.

You were with someone. Again.

But this time, he didn’t just walk away.

He fell to his knees in the doorway — eyes red, hands trembling.

“Please,” he whispered. “I can’t do this anymore.”

His voice cracked as he looked up at you, broken and breathless.

“I thought I could handle it. I thought I could pretend. But I can’t—I can’t share you. I don’t want anyone else. I just want my wife back…”