This is my story. A story of love, of overwhelming feeling—and in the end, of sadness and regret.
I’m nearly fifty now, but for twenty-three years I’ve kept a secret. A secret that has slowly eaten away at me, with no one I could trust to share it. These are things I’ve never said aloud, yet they’ve always simmered beneath the surface. Wounds that never healed. Pain that won’t ever go away. Pain caused, in the end, by silence—by burying intense, powerful emotions to protect the ones I love. The kind of pain that can’t truly be buried, though I tried. Oh, how I tried. But it always fights its way back. The kind of pain that chips away at you, slowly, until you can’t bear it any longer. I call it pain, but really it’s love. Love that can’t be shown.
So here I am, writing down what has lived in my heart for so long. And I dearly hope that a certain person gets to read it. Maybe they feel the same. Maybe they don’t. What I seek is closure, one way or another, I can’t go on without tackling this.
Here goes.
When I was in my twenties, I was happy. Confident. I enjoyed my life. I was engaged, and I had a three-year-old daughter who filled my heart with pride and love. I was happy—or so I thought. I’d met my fiancée three years earlier, and she became pregnant almost right away. I did the right thing: I asked her to marry me, and we began building a life together.
But then I met someone at work. She was incredibly special. She swept me off my feet. Someone I couldn’t take my eyes off. Someone I felt so powerfully drawn to that even if I’d tried to resist, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. The dangerous part came when it became clear she felt the same. For a short while, we were inseparable, stealing moments whenever we could—kisses, cuddles, shared hopes and dreams for the future that we would never get to live. We talked for hours and hours, and in those precious moments, I saw the world in its most glorious light. I walked on cloud nine. I was so happy. We were madly in love, and anyone who saw us together could tell. Rumors swirled at work, but I didn’t care. I never told anyone the full truth, but they had eyes. They could see. What we had was pure, real, and the strongest, most intense feeling I have ever known. Nothing has ever come close. And feelings like that don’t just disappear—not in a week, not in a year, not in a decade, not even in two. We were perfectly made for each other.
I won’t go into details of the times we shared. Those cherished memories are for us alone. But I doubt these feelings will ever fade. I’m talking about the kind of love that doesn’t come around often. The kind of love that, once found, you must never let go. Or you’ll end up like me—stuck in a moment, unable to move on, unable to be truly happy.
We both knew what was happening. We knew decisions had to be made—decisions that would cause hurt and pain. So we carried on, trying to forget, trying to live and love in our own little world, separate from everything and everyone else.
Normal life became a struggle. Home was hard. I wasn’t hiding things well, and it was noticed. Accusations flew, but I couldn’t stop it. I was powerless. I was madly in love.
Then the affair came to an end. Abruptly. We were both struggling, and I knew it weighed heavily on her. We both knew where we stood. Our feelings for each other were stronger than for our partners. We admitted we would have left them in a heartbeat. The stumbling block was my daughter—the reason she finally walked away, with a wavering voice and tears in her eyes she said “I love you, but I can’t be the reason your family breaks up”. I’ll remember that forever.
I have to thank her for that. For putting my daughter first, above all else. It was the right decision for everyone involved with the exception of me and ‘you’. My daughter grew up in a happy home, with parents who adored her and gave her the world. We had two more children—both loved, both happy. We got married, and truly, it was a happy, loving relationship. But privately, I suffered in silence. I’ve never been the same man. I’m a shadow of myself. I could never make my wife truly happy. I couldn’t give her my whole heart—I pretended to, but how could I, when a piece of it was living in the heart I’d left behind? And I know I’ve kept a piece of her heart with me. I know because I feel it. It’s there, without a doubt. It always will be. You don’t walk away from true love without it touching your very soul.
I never spoke to her again. That breaks my heart. I have so much to tell her, and the fact that I can’t causes me immense turmoil. I know I can’t have her. But if I’m honest with myself, I’m still madly in love with her.
I hope she reads this. I hope she understands. I hope she knows I’m sorry. I hope we can reconnect—even if it’s just so I can find out that she’s happy. That she’s cared for. That she’s loved. I need to see and speak to her one last time before I die.
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