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About a year after we moved in together, I fucked up and cheated on her.
I’m not proud of it, and I deserved what came after.
She didn’t talk to me for three months.
And I don’t mean she was just mad for a few days. I mean we were practically living on top of each other in our tiny studio, and she would barely say a word to me.
I slept on the floor.
Three or four nights a week, usually after dinner, she would shower and start getting ready like she was going out clubbing.
Hair done. Makeup perfect. Nails done. Perfume on. She kept herself freshly shaved and smooth, like she was making sure every part of her looked and felt perfect before she left.
Then she would put on something that looked like it was picked specifically to hurt me.
Before all of that, when she dressed like that around the guys, there was still this feeling that I was part of it. We both knew they were looking, and that she was teasing every guy in the room, but she was still mine.
After I cheated, that changed.
Now it felt like she was weaponizing it against me.
The first couple weeks, she at least pretended they were normal outfits.
Tiny dresses. Crop tops. Miniskirts. Heels. Outfits that were obviously sexy, but still technically something she could wear out and act like I was the one in the wrong for having an issue with it.
But as the weeks went on, that line started moving.
By the end, she wasn’t really pretending anymore.
Some nights she looked like she was going out in lingerie with just enough fabric added to call it clothes. A lace thong visible above a tiny skirt. A push-up bra under a top so thin it might as well have been mesh. Tiny dresses that barely covered her ass when she stood still and definitely didn’t when she moved.
Other nights she wouldn’t wear a bra at all, and the outline of her nipples would poke through the thin fabric of her top.
She knew exactly what those outfits would make me imagine.
She knew I would picture those same guys seeing her in them.
And what messed with me the most was how right before she walked out the door, she would finally speak.
Not to explain herself.
Not to reassure me.
Just to tell me who she was going out with.
Most nights, it was the same three guys from the game nights. The same guys who had already spent months watching her tease the room while everyone pretended nothing was happening.
Sometimes a fourth guy joined them too — the one she had spent eight days alone with, making out, dry humping, getting fingered, and doing pretty much everything short of actual sex.
And one of the main three was the guy from the night I heard her from outside our open window, making out with him and getting fingered.
So when she said their names on her way out the door, it wasn’t just jealousy.
It was every old image, every old sound, every old memory coming back.
Only this time, instead of turning me on, it felt like a gut punch.
She would say their names casually, like she was telling me what time it was.
Then she’d walk out the door.
And I’d sit there alone for the next six hours, imagining every possible thing that could be happening.
Some nights she came home looking almost exactly how she left.
Most nights, she didn’t.
Her hair would be messier. Her makeup would be smudged. Her lipstick would be gone.
Most of the time, the outfit didn’t sit on her body the same way it had when she left.
And no matter how she looked, she always did the same thing.
Straight to the shower.
Then straight to bed.
Not a word to me.
That part messed with me the most.
The shower.
Every time she came home, usually around two or three in the morning, she would walk in, avoid saying anything, go straight into the bathroom, and get in the shower.
I would lie there pretending to be asleep, listening to the water run, wondering what she had done, what she was washing off, and what those guys thought when she left their place and came home to me.
The worst part was knowing she knew exactly what she was doing to me.
She knew those guys were already in my head.
She knew I would sit there alone, my mind running wild, imagining what she was doing.
Sometimes I’d finally break and ask.
“Where were you?”
Nothing.
“Did something happen?”
Nothing.
“Were you with them all night?”
That was usually when she’d finally look at me and simply say, “Yes,” with this cold little smile on her face.
And every time I pressed for details, she gave me the same answer.
“You don’t deserve to know.”
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