I Was the One

I cheated on him. And he's the one who's still sorry.

Nobody writes the girl who cheated. Nobody makes a playlist for her. But I'm up at 2 AM like everyone else, replaying every second. So here we go.

His name was Eli. Three years. Sweet, steady, the kind of guy who warms your side of the bed. I wasn't unhappy. That's what makes it unforgivable. I was just bored, lonely, drunk at a house party, and someone looked at me like I was new.

One kiss. Ten seconds. Then I went home and told him the next morning, shaking, tears running, before he'd even had coffee.

He didn't scream. He didn't throw anything. He sat very still and said, "Okay."

He forgave me. That's the part nobody believes. He said, "I want to try." For three weeks, he tried. He held my hand and looked away at the same time. He checked my phone, then apologised for checking. He laughed less.

One night, he said, "I keep waiting to feel better."

I realised I was making him the villain of his own story.

So I said, "Maybe you should go."

He looked at me, stunned. "Do you want me to?"

I couldn't say yes. I couldn't say no. I just stood there, silent.

And he left.

Not because I cheated.

Because when he gave me the chance to fight for him, I didn't.