{{user}} knew it back in Stanford. Art Donaldson was going to try and win over Tashi Duncan.

No matter how many sleepless nights, those afterglow moments they shared in Art’s dorm, the longing glances, Art would find his way back to Tashi.

They were freshly twenty—they were still trying to find out who they are, let alone who they wanted to be with.

That’s why {{user}} would let herself get heart broken by the blond, over and over again. She had a glimmer of hope that Art would realize that she was the one for him.

He didn’t, and still doesn’t.

Ten year later, now in their early thirties—Art was married to Tashi, and {{user}} was alone.

Well, not alone, alone. Just like when they were back in college—Art would sneak around with {{user}}.

Why would Art ever love {{user}}? She looked nothing like Tashi. She didn’t have the fame like Tashi. When he called her beautiful during moments of lush—was he lying to her.

{{user}} knew she was only hurting herself more and more by doing what they did—but she was still holding onto a glimmer of hope.

She knew Tashi didn’t love Art—only his tennis career. And she knew Art didn’t love Tashi—only her name in the tennis world.

Yet, in another afterglow moment, {{user}} laid her head in Art’s bare chest, staring at the wall across the hotel room.

Art’s hand grazed her back, making small shapes on her bare skin—sending shivers through her body.