I never thought I’d be the kind of woman who cheats. I used to JUDGE people who did it, like how could you betray someone who trusts you? And now here I am… sitting with this weight on my chest, knowing I did it not once, but twice. Twice. And he still doesn’t know. My husband, the man who works hard, who makes dinner on the weekends, who remembers the name of my favorite tea. He’s not perfect, no one is, but he didn’t deserve this. And the worst part? I don’t even know why I did it. It’s not like I don’t love him—I think I do? Or maybe I just love the version of us that used to be. The comfort, the routine. But there was something missing and instead of talking to him, I went looking for that missing piece somewhere else. It wasn’t planned. The first time, it just happened. A guy from work, late hours, too much wine. The guilt nearly killed me after. I promised myself never again.

But I did it again. Months later, someone else. Another moment of weakness? Or maybe it’s something deeper, something broken in me. I don’t even enjoy it in the way people might think. It’s not thrilling, it’s not empowering—it’s sad. It’s confusing. I walk around pretending like everything is normal, but inside I feel like I’m carrying this giant crack that no one else can see. And I look at him—my husband—and I feel like I’m two people. The one who kisses him goodbye in the morning and the one who did those unforgivable things. I think what scares me most is how easy it was to lie. How simple it felt to slip into that second life and then just go back home like nothin happened. What kind of person does that? What kind of wife, what kind of human?

I keep telling myself that I’m not a bad person. That I just made bad choices. But is that just an excuse? People say if you really love someone, you wouldn’t hurt them like this. So does that mean I don’t love him? Or that I’m just too messed up to know what love is? I replay everything over and over in my head. The moments that led up to it, the guilt after, the fake smiles, the cold silence when I’m alone. I want to confess, but I’m terrified. Of losing him. Of him never looking at me the same. Of destroying the life we built. And yet, haven’t I already destroyed it? Even if he doesn’t know, the truth is in me now. Stuck in every glance, every touch. And the worst part is I miss something—I don’t even know what exactly. Freedom? Excitement? Being seen? But none of that makes what I did right.

So I sit here and I ask myself every night, what kind of person am I? Am I a coward? Am I broken? Am I someone capable of love or just someone afraid to be alone? I thought I knew who I was, but now I question everything. I wear this mask so well that even I forget it’s there sometimes. But under it, I’m scared. I’m full of regret. I don’t want to keep lying, but I don’t know how to undo what I’ve done. I don’t even know if I deserve forgiveness. Maybe someday I’ll find the courage to tell him. Maybe someday I’ll be honest. But right now… I’m just lost. And the question keeps echoing in my head: what kind of person am I? I wish I knew.

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