In 6 days, it’ll be 2 years.
Two years of promises. Two years of “almost.” Two years of me building an entire emotional life around a future you kept telling me was right around the corner.
And meanwhile, my actual life kept moving.
I moved across the country. I built a career I’m proud of. I made a home for myself. I learned how to survive without you, even while loving you. I’m living a good life.
Alone.
Single.
Without you.
And you’re still exactly where you’ve always been.
You said by now we’d be sitting by our pool drinking coffee together in the mornings, finally at peace, finally together. You painted these beautiful, vivid pictures of a life that always seemed just six months away.
But somehow six months never arrives.
You tell me things are happening. That the divorce is moving forward. That you found an attorney you trust. Then suddenly the attorney is representing your wife instead, because she doesn’t want the divorce, so now everything is “complicated” and “in her hands.”
But the truth is, nothing is moving because you aren’t moving.
You say you live in the basement apartment now and that she knows about us, knows the marriage is over. But somehow you still can’t call me until she goes to sleep. Somehow we still have to hide in text messages like teenagers sneaking around.
If you’re separated, why do I still feel like your secret?
You tell me you talked to realtors. That neither of you wants to keep the houses. That you’re downsizing your life to finally come be with me.
But the houses aren’t listed.
No boxes are packed.
Nothing has been sold.
Nothing changes except the story.
You told me you put in your retirement notice at work. Then the timeline shifted. Spring became September. September became January. Every finish line just turns into another horizon you swear we’re approaching.
And I keep standing here waiting for a train that never arrives.
At Christmas, you spent the week with me and my family. You told me your wife knew. You told me she understood the marriage was over.
Then I found out you were texting her “I love you” while lying next to me in my home.
And after telling me you couldn’t spend New Year’s Eve with me because you “had to work,” less than a day later you were at the lake with your wife, curled up in front of a fireplace like a Hallmark movie.
Do you understand how crazy this makes me feel?
How humiliating?
How small I’ve made myself to survive this?
I’ve bent over backwards to fit into the tiny corners of your life that you allow me to occupy. I’ve accepted scraps and called them love. I’ve silenced my own needs because asking for more always made me feel “difficult” or “impatient” or “unfair.”
But this past week something broke in me.
I had one of the hardest days I’ve had in a long time. I was overwhelmed, exhausted, emotionally hanging by a thread, and I told you that. I told you I didn’t need you to fix anything — I just needed you to be there for me for once.
And you still couldn’t call me.
Not even then.
I got a short text and an emoji.
That was it.
Hours passed before I heard anything else.
And in that moment, everything became painfully clear.
Because this wasn’t about logistics anymore. Or divorce timelines. Or complicated marriages. Or houses or retirement dates or attorneys.
This was about effort.
About priority.
About love.
Anyone else in your life would’ve gotten a phone call.
Anyone else crying out for support would’ve gotten your attention.
But me? I got crumbs again.
And when I finally told you that I deserved more than a text message, you agreed. You admitted you were wrong. You said you’d do better. You asked if you could call, but I was working and told you to call me today after I got home because my schedule was packed.
You said you would.
And then today came.
And you didn’t call.
Again.
Because you were home.
With your wife.
Again.
You say I’m your future. You say I’m your priority. You say you want a life with me.
But when I needed you most, when I was falling apart and begging for the bare minimum, you still could not step away long enough to pick up the phone and be there for me like a real partner would.
That tells me everything I’ve spent two years trying not to see.
You’re not stuck.
You’re choosing.
And I think the hardest part of all this is realizing that while I’ve been building my life around the idea of us, you’ve been perfectly content living two lives at once.
I kept waiting for your actions to finally match your words.
They never did.
And maybe they never will.
You’re an asshole.