Pierced hearts

The truth hurts

I decided to let everything slide. Richie swore he never cheated on me. He said it with such conviction that I forced myself to believe him, even though a voice inside kept whispering otherwise. I forgave him—and he was overjoyed.

After that, Richie did everything he could to win me back. He showered me with attention, made sweet gestures, said all the right words. I felt guilty for doubting him and even apologized

for not trusting his love. But then… things started to change.

He became secretive.

He began hiding his phone from me. The password I once knew was suddenly changed. When I asked him about it, he got defensive. “Don’t you trust me anymore?” he asked. To prove his innocence, he unlocked his phone and handed it to me.

But most of the chats were cleared.

Still, I took the phone. I wasn’t expecting anything, just maybe some answers. Then a Telegram notification popped up—it was from a lady. Something pushed me to open it.

What I saw broke me.

That day became a scar on my memory. Chat after chat… proof that the man I loved had been bringing prostitutes into our home. Not just once. Several times. Different women. He paid them to sleep with him, sometimes even let them spend the night.

I stared at those messages, frozen.

Where did I go wrong? I gave him everything. Even when I wasn’t in the mood for s*x, I gave in—just to make him happy. And still, I wasn’t enough.

I checked their profiles. Most of them were nothing compared to me. He had traded gold for dust. My hands trembled. I dropped the phone. Tears streamed down uncontrollably.

Then it all clicked—the condom incident. I had seen one in his bag, and he’d lied, twisted it all to make me feel guilty for suspecting him. My instincts were right all along. I was devastated. My heart felt like it had been stabbed a thousand times.

I wanted to scream.

When Richie walked in and saw me crying, he looked confused. “Why are you crying?” he asked, trying to come closer. I backed away. “Don’t touch me.”

He looked frustrated, like he was the victim. “At least tell me what I did this time,” he said.

I handed him the phone. “Can you explain these messages?”

His face went pale. I guess he forgot to delete them.

Silence.

He stood there for a while, probably scrambling to find a lie that made sense. He looked so innocent—but I had finally seen his true face. I had always defended him, convinced myself he could never cheat.

I was wrong.

“Why, Richard?” I kept asking. “Why would you do this to me?”

He kept repeating, “It’s complicated. I can explain.”

But no explanation could fix what he’d done. My heart was in pieces. I had given my all to this

relationship—my time, my body, my trust. And for what? To be betrayed in the worst way?

That night, I couldn’t sleep.

My eyes were swollen, my chest heavy. I felt numb. My thoughts spiraled, and a dark idea crept in. Maybe if I ended it all, the pain would stop.

I got up, walked to the kitchen, and grabbed a bottle of chemicals. I locked myself in the bathroom, phone in one hand and a notepad in the other. My hands trembled as I wrote the note.

I was too weak to cry anymore.

“Why should I take my life over someone who clearly never loved me?” I asked myself. “How would my parents react when they find out?”

Suddenly, I was torn.

One part of me was drowning in pain… the other clung to the little strength I had left. I sat there, stuck between the darkness that wanted to swallow me, and the tiny spark that whispered.

I don’t know how long I sat on the cold bathroom floor.

The bottle of chemicals stared back at me. The note I wrote lay beside it—unfinished. I read the words I had scribbled, but they no longer felt like mine. It was like reading someone else’s pain, someone else’s goodbye.

Tears ran silently down my face, but this time, they felt different. Not just pain… something else. Anger. Realization. Maybe even the tiniest flicker of strength.

Why should I be the one to break?

He betrayed me.

He disrespected me.

He lied to me, over and over again.

And I was about to end my life… for him

I stood up slowly, legs weak, heart heavier than ever. I poured the chemicals down the sink and ripped the note into pieces. That moment didn’t magically fix everything, but it was the beginning of something.

A quiet rebellion inside me.

A decision: I will not die for a man who would never cry for me.

When I stepped back into the room, Richie was still asleep, completely unaware of the storm I had survived alone. I looked at him—not with love this time, but with disappointment. I used to think he was the man of my dreams. Now, I saw a stranger who stole my peace.

I lay on the bed beside him, eyes wide open, thoughts racing. The next morning, Richie woke up and noticed I was quiet. “Are you still angry?” he asked casually, like we’d had a small argument. I didn’t respond.

He tried to touch me. I moved away.

“I’m sorry, okay? I made a mistake. I’ll stop. I’ll delete their contacts. It didn’t mean anything,” he said, like cheating was a minor habit he could turn off like a light switch.

I looked at him and asked calmly, “If it meant nothing, why did you keep doing it?”

He had no answer. Just silence.

For the first time in a long while, I didn’t cry. My tears had dried up. What was left was a quiet strength that was slowly rising, like the sun after a long night.

I started packing a few of my things.

He looked confused. “Where are you going?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I didn’t know yet.