Published: June 19th 2025, 3:00:24 pm
I wore guilt like perfume, invisible but clinging to every inch of me.
Mornings with my husband felt like scenes from someone else’s life—his soft kisses, his familiar laugh, all scripted, all safe. But when I closed my eyes, it was the stranger I saw. The man with the storm in his voice and that look—like he could see the parts of me I kept buried under laundry and late dinners. He didn’t know my name, not really, and yet in my mind, he whispered it like a secret, reverent and ruined. I told myself I wouldn’t cross the line. I was just thinking. Just watching the fire from across the room, pretending the heat didn’t make me sweat. But fantasies have a way of becoming needs, and needs are greedy, impatient things.
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