THREE MONTHS

 Three months.

That’s all it took

to go from forever

to I don’t know,

from rings on fingers

to distance in doorways,

from “we’ll try for five months”

to him saying

he’d never stop fighting

for us.


He said I was the only one,

that someday I’d see

how true his love was—

words that felt like anchors

when everything else

was drifting.


But two weeks later

he’s living with someone else,

letting our kids sleep

with a stranger at the house,

calling her girlfriend

like the promises he made me

were nothing but dust

he wiped off his hands.


And I’m left here asking—

how long?

How long was this building

behind my back?

How long was he lying

about fighting for us,

about caring for me,

about anything at all?


Because the man I knew

wouldn’t fall that fast,

move that fast,

introduce someone new

to our children

that fast.


This version of him

proves one thing—

not that I’m unlovable,

but that he’s been gone

longer than I realized.


And maybe

that’s the part

that hurts the most:

not losing him now,

but realizing

I lost him long before.


But hear me—

I don’t want him anymore.

What I want

is answers, truth,

a place to set down

this weight in my chest.


What I want

is to feel like I matter

to someone

the way I should have mattered

to him.


What I want

is to stop asking why

someone else’s choices

broke me open—

and remember

that pain this sharp

only means

I’m still alive,

still capable,

still healing.


Even if tonight

I’m just a woman

trying to breathe

through a betrayal

she did not deserve.

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