It's been months since I cheated on Eric.
My book launch has come and gone, yet recurring dreams still haunt me—and Eric's worry is growing by the day. I haven't replied to any of Kyle's messages until today. His latest text is blunt: I'll be in the country in two days, and you must choose: either you tell Eric about us or I confess myself. Either way, I want you all to myself—and I would stop at nothing.

My hands tremble as I tiptoe into the walk-in closet, shutting the door softly so as not to wake Eric. I call Kyle three times, but there's no answer. I start typing a reply, then delete it, over and over, until exhaustion finally overcomes me. I sink to the floor and cry silently into my hands. In that moment, the decision becomes clear: I must tell Eric about Kyle and me.

After taking several deep, shaky breaths, I push open the closet door and step out into the dim hallway. There, on our bed, I find Eric sitting up, eyes heavy with worry. My heart pounds so fiercely I'm sure he senses it too. A sudden surge of panic grips me—has Kyle already told him? Oh, shit!

"Where did you go?" Eric asks softly.
I let out a quiet sigh of relief. "Uh, I needed to call someone...I didn't want to wake you."
He nods, tapping the spot beside him. His silent invitation eases me, and I join him. He strokes my hair gently, and before I can stop myself, the words burst out:
"I cheated, Eric."

His hand freezes mid-stroke, and I hear him take a deep, shuddering breath.
"What did you say?" he whispers, his voice trembling as tears begin to stream down his face.

We lock eyes—his filled with pain and disbelief, mine swirling with guilt and sorrow.
"I'm so sorry, Eric...I'm so, so sorry," I choke out.
He raises a hand to still my protests.
"When? And with whom? ... Why?" His tone grows cold, each question a shard of ice in my chest.

I struggle for words. "When you travelled—right before my book launch..." My voice falters as I recall that day and the memory stings as much now as the realisation then.

I force myself to continue, "It was with...with Kyle Sanders."
A heavy silence falls.

"Which Kyle Sanders?" Eric demands, his voice rising with hurt and shock.
I whisper, "I'm sorry Eric, please..."

"How long had this been going on... Heck! How did this even happen? You barely said a word to each other, when did you... How did you?"

He tries to make sense of how Kyle and I, got together.

"He's my ex—10 years ago. We separated and then...everything just fell apart." I say between sobs.
Eric's eyes widen in disbelief. "And the most rational thing to do was to sleep with your now-married ex? I can't believe this, June!"

Before I can respond, Eric stands abruptly, grabs his keys and a t-shirt, and storms out. I call after him, "Eric, wait! Please!" But he doesn't look back.

I collapse to my knees, sobbing louder. "I'm so sorry, Eric. I've lived with this guilt for months...I regret it. Please, don't leave me...I love you so much!"

I remain on the floor until I feel his presence again—a heavy, conflicted silhouette looms. He helps me to my feet, then, with a pained, distant look, says, "I just need some time to think..." He brushes my tear-stained cheek with his fingertips and, without another word, walks out the door. I watch him retreat until I can barely see his back, my heart shattering with each step he takes away from me.

I wake to soft light streaming through open curtains. Confused, I remember falling asleep on the couch, how did I end up on the bed? Now, sitting up on my bed, I rub my tired eyes and scan the room—everything is just as it was yesterday, except Eric's spot on the bed remains empty. I sigh heavily.

It's been three long days since Eric left our home after my confession. I've waited by the door, on the stairs, on the sofa—hoping, praying, for his return. My stomach twists with regret, and every breath tastes bitter with sorrow.

I gather myself and shuffle to the bathroom. After brushing my teeth, I study my reflection in the mirror. Dark bags under my eyes and a lone tear on my cheek reveal the toll of my guilt. I quickly wipe it away and go down to the living room.

There, Eric sits in a chair—shirtless, holding a cup of coffee. Before him, a tray of bacon, scrambled eggs, pancakes, and a glass of orange juice sits as if prepared with quiet care. Our eyes meet, and despite the storm inside me, his gaze is gentle.

"Come on, your breakfast's going to get cold," he says calmly.
I stutter, "Aren't you—aren't you supposed to be mad at me? I—I don't deserve this, Eric."
He smiles—a soft, bittersweet smile that makes my heart ache.

"I'm not mad, my dear wife. I should be the one apologizing for neglecting you, for making you feel so alone that you sought something elsewhere." He says as he walks towards me.
I try to cry out, "I'm sorry..."
He presses a finger gently to my lips. "You don't have to apologize. I still love you, June. I need time to heal, but I'd rather do that with you than push you away."
Then, with a hint of humour breaking through his sadness, he adds, "Now, come on—I'm starving, and you know I hate cold food."

I stand there, stunned and conflicted, uncertain if I can ever truly fix what's broken.

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