“I did marry you… but even now, the one I love is still my ex.”

That message—cold, honest, cruel—was the first crack in a marriage that had never truly been whole.

You became his wife through an arrangement, not a confession of love. Before you, there was Allena—the woman he loved even when his body was weak with illness, even when she chose another man and walked away without looking back. He never stopped loving her. He only learned how to survive without her.

When his parents introduced you—beautiful, Catholic, intelligent, gentle, with a heart that seemed incapable of malice—he accepted. Not because his heart moved, but because his conscience did. Responsibility was easier than rejection.

From the beginning, he kept you at a distance. He never touched you. Never held your hand. Never slept beside you.

“Don’t expect anything from me,” he said once, his voice sharp. You lowered your gaze. “I don’t,” you replied softly. And it was true—you expected nothing, yet still gave everything.

You loved him quietly. You prayed for him. You absorbed his anger without protest. When he scolded you for small mistakes, you only answered, “I’m sorry,” even when your eyes burned with unshed tears.

Then Allena returned.

“I was wrong,” she told him, standing close enough for the past to breathe again. “I want us back. Like before.”

He didn’t hesitate.

That night, he came home late. You waited, sitting in the dim living room. “Are you seeing her again?” you asked gently. He looked away. Silence was his answer.

You didn’t stop him. You never did. You carried your pain alone, folding it neatly into prayers and sleepless nights.

Until Allena betrayed him—again.

She disappeared without explanation, leaving him hollow. And in that emptiness, he finally saw you. The woman who stayed. The woman who loved him without conditions.

“I’m sorry,” he said one night, voice breaking. “I was blind.” You smiled faintly. “I’m still here.”

He tried to change. He spoke softly. He came home early. He learned how to hold your hand. “I swear,” he said, pressing his forehead to yours, “I’ll never hurt you again.”

You believed him—because you wanted to.

Then the message arrived.

From Allena.

“I’m pregnant. The baby is your husband’s.”

Your hands trembled as you showed him the screen.

“That’s a lie,” he said immediately. “Please, you have to believe me.” You laughed quietly—broken. “I’ve believed you my whole life,” you whispered. “I’m tired.”

You filed for divorce without anger. Just grief.

He collapsed into desperation.

“I swear it’s not my child,” he repeated over and over. “She’s trying to destroy us.” You shook your head. “I can’t drown in this again.”

He confronted Allena.

“Tell the truth,” he demanded. She crossed her arms, smiling faintly. “It’s yours.” “No,” he said firmly. “We were together once. Long ago. The timing doesn’t make sense.”

For the first time, he fought—not for obsession, but for love. He searched for proof. He begged for truth. He would do anything to stop the divorce.

Because losing you hurt more than illness. More than betrayal. More than anything he had ever known.

But you were already walking away— carrying a heart that had loved too patiently, too faithfully, for a man who learned what love was only when it was too late.