There’s a bittersweet irony to the way love can suffocate you. I stand at my window, staring into the backyard where you used to laugh freely. The sun filters through the leaves, creating dappled patterns on the ground, and for a moment, I’m entranced. But then I catch sight of her—the woman watering the flowers, her laughter slicing through the silence like a knife.

It’s strange how a heart can be torn in two places at once. On one side, there’s the longing I still feel for you—each pulse of my heart a reminder of what we once were. On the other, there’s the crushing weight of betrayal and sorrow, a quiet treason that gnaws at me like a persistent hunger.

I wish I could say I’ve moved on. Every morning feels like a Monday, heavy and gray, stuck in an endless February. I took the miracle move-on drug—maybe you saw it in my eyes, the hollow, haunted look. The effects were temporary, leaving me even more acutely aware of what I’d lost.

“Spencer?” Your voice drifts in from the past, haunting me. I remember our nights spent talking, dreams intertwining like vines. You were my safe harbor. Now? I’ve washed ashore on a desolate beach, surrounded by remnants of what we built.

There are moments when our eyes meet, and it’s like time halts. I see the flicker of recognition, the ghost of what we had—a flash of those nights wrapped in forever. And there’s my wife, watering flowers, as if she owns the joy that once belonged to us.

It’s maddening. I want to scream, to tear apart this facade. But I know it’s not her fault. It’s not even yours. It’s life, love, and loss, all tangled together in a mess I can’t untangle.

I hold my breath, swallowing the bitter taste of what could have been. The days bleed into one another, and I can’t tell if it’s grief or love ruining my life. I hope you’re okay. But how can I say that without the choking reminder that you’re the reason I’m not?