Adventurer

I miss you.

There. I said it.
It’s been days since I blocked you, and this is the first time I’ve let myself admit it without immediately trying to bury it under anger or logic or distraction.

I’ve mostly been running from you, from what happened, from how much I let myself feel. Because I was all in. Fully, irrationally, completely in.

And you… weren’t.
Or maybe you were but only in the ways that suited you.

I still don’t understand what we were. Some days it felt so real it scared me. And now it feels like something carefully contained. Controlled. Hidden.

Because you didn’t want us to exist in real life.

Not really.

No traces. No messages that meant anything. No conversations that lasted in the daylight. No walking into places together. No sitting across from each other like two people who knew each other.

No “hello” in the office. No acknowledgment.
Nothing that made us real.

Just closed doors.
Your room. Your car.
Spaces where I existed—but only in the way you wanted me to.

And I kept telling myself it was enough. Maybe this is just how complicated things look sometimes.

But it wasn’t complicated.
It was contained.

And I was the one shrinking to fit inside it.

And the worst part is—I was in love with you.

Not casually. Not halfway.
I was gone.

I loved the way you looked. Your smile that made everything feel easier for a second. Your eyes that felt like they were actually paying attention. That stupid tattoo I kept noticing like it meant something more than it did.

I loved what I thought was your innocence. Your simplicity. The way you seemed… uncomplicated, kind, safe.

The way you cared—
or the way I believed you did.

And now I don’t know what any of that was.

Maybe I imagined it.
Maybe I filled in the gaps with things I needed to see.
Or maybe you were just very good at pretending.

Because sex wasn’t casual for me. It wasn’t just something that happened.
It was everything.

It was my marriage, my history, my loyalty, my body that had only ever belonged to one man before. It was trust. It was risk. It was me stepping so far outside myself that I didn’t recognize who I was becoming.

And I chose to do that with you.

I chose you.

And somehow, you still made me feel like I didn’t exist beyond those moments.

That’s the part that stays with me.

Because I remember how it started.
The talking. Constant, easy, warm. I remember holding back, convincing myself there was no future here—not even friendship.

And then you kept showing up.

You saw me. You listened. You made me feel interesting, understood, wanted. And I didn’t even realize how much I had missed feeling alive until it was already happening.

That’s what you gave me.

Life, for a while.

When we met, it felt unreal in the best way. Like something I had imagined too much and somehow it stepped into reality. You were exactly what I thought you’d be and more.

And I let myself fall into that.

I made time. I crossed lines. I showed up for you in ways that were not small decisions for me. I came to you, sat with you, laughed with you, and trusted you.

And slowly, I started noticing what was missing.

Effort.
Consistency.
A place for me in your actual life.

I kept waiting for something that said I mattered outside of those closed spaces. Something public. Something simple. Something real.

But you didn’t want that.

You wanted me—but only in parts.

And still, I stayed.

Even when it started hurting. Even when I realized I was being kept separate, hidden, reduced to something that existed only when it was convenient for you.

And then came the truth you never gave me.

You were getting married.

You had someone. A whole life already unfolding. And I was standing there thinking I was part of something real.

That’s what breaks me.

Not just that you lied—but that you let me build something on top of that lie.

Now even my memories feel unreliable.

Some days, I remember you in that kurta I gave you, sending me that picture, looking so good it almost felt unfair. Someone I wanted to hold, to touch, to be close to without hesitation.

And other days, all I can see is everything you didn’t say.

The half-truths. The omissions. The version of reality you edited so I would stay exactly where you wanted me.

I told you everything.
My feelings, my fears, my confusion, the cost of all of this for me.

And it didn’t change anything.

Because it was never about us.

It was always about you.

And I just… fit into the spaces you left open.

I miss you.

And I hate that I do.

Because I don’t even know if I miss you—
or the version of you that I fell in love with…
the one who either never existed,
or never intended to stay.