Readers, this may not be your regular broken pen what should I do story. I just wanted a space to share my experience so here goes nothing. Some years ago—six, to be exact—he asked me to marry him. Felix. Sweet, consistent, and incredibly intentional. He was serious about me, but I said no.
Not because I didn’t care. But because I had a boyfriend. The relationship I was in wasn’t perfect, not even close. There were cracks—some deep, some loud—but I didn’t take it as an excuse to cheat. So I kept turning Felix down, gently, always with the same line: “I have someone.”
He stayed, though. As a friend. And he was good to me—too good, really. So I tried to keep him close, selfishly, maybe. Until he finally said, “I can’t do this. It’s hurting me.”
He stopped calling.
Stopped texting.
And when I reached out, the silence was louder than any rejection.
Eventually, he left town.
And just like that… he disappeared.
Six years.
Six long, silent years.
And life? Well, life moved.
That relationship I was holding onto fell apart—as expected.
Then came another one. It lasted two years, but it didn’t last.
I kept praying. Asking God for something real. Something I wouldn’t have to beg for.
Men came… with charm, with promises, with empty futures.
But none of them felt like forever.
So again, I kept saying no.
Then one random evening…
I bumped into Felix.
He looked like a man the world had been kind to.
Clean. Confident. Settled.
I ran into his arms like time hadn’t passed us by.
We spoke for a few minutes—he was with people.
He took my number and promised to call.
And he did.
That same night.
We talked for over an hour.
It was like we were trying to make up for six lost years in sixty minutes.
We laughed. We unpacked.
He teased,
“You really stressed my heart back then. If you had said yes, we’d be married by now.”
I smiled, but deep down, it hurt.
Because he was right.
I said, “It was a mistake. I should have… But maybe God knew what He was doing.”
We met again before he left town.
And that’s when he said it.
“I still love you.”
I asked if he hadn’t met anyone else in all those years.
He said he had—he dated, even dreamed of others.
But none of them were me.
And that… that pulled something loose in me.
Something I thought I’d buried.
So I let him in—fully.
He came over. Spent the night.
Held me like he’d been waiting six years for that moment.
And I gave myself without fear. Without second-guessing.
Morning came.
His alarm rang.
I was already up.
I glanced at his phone.
There it was—his photo on the lock screen.
Hand on cheek.
A ring on that finger.
I asked, “Are you married?”
He looked confused.
“Me? Married? What are you talking about?”
I asked to see the lock screen again.
He hesitated. Tried to brush it off.
But I’d already seen what I needed to see.
I didn’t argue.
Didn’t shout.
Just said, “Your water is ready. You can bathe now.”
And when he left the room, I cried.
Not loud. Not broken.
Just… quiet tears.
It wasn’t just betrayal.
It was the shame.
I had become the kind of woman I once judged.
The kind I promised I’d never be.
A woman who didn’t know she was lying next to someone else’s husband.
When he came out, he tried to explain.
He said he’d thought about telling me.
Said he didn’t mean for things to go that far.
But that’s the thing with men like him—they never mean to.
They just do… and apologize later.
He left money on my table.
And in that moment, I felt cheap.
Like I’d been paid for a night I thought was sacred.
I pushed the money into his pocket.
Opened the door.
He said, “Oh, have patience erh…”
I didn’t respond.
I just closed the door behind him.
And sat with the silence.
I didn’t cry again.
I got dressed.
Went to work.
And wrote this.
When I told my best friend, all she said was,
“Men… and miracles.”
And maybe that’s what he was.
A miracle—just not mine.
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