Chapter Nineteen: Scents of Choice

                                        

                                              
I opened the door to Thomas.
He stood there, looking older somehow — not in years, but in wear. Like time had moved differently for him since everything broke apart. He had files in hand, gripping them like they were both a shield and a confession. For a while, we just sat in the quiet — not hostile, but cautious. Like standing on a frozen lake, not knowing if the ice beneath us would hold.
"I want to start by apologizing," he said finally, his voice steady, but edged with a weight that had taken years to accumulate. "For everything. I was wrong. I hurt you.""
My breath caught before I could answer. My throat tightened, that familiar burn rising fast behind my eyes. I hated how quickly my body remembered the pain, even before my mind could process the words. The nights I cried alone in bed, wondering what I'd done wrong. The mornings I pretended to be okay because the kids were watching. The conversations that turned cold halfway through, like someone had flipped a switch. The endless days I waited for him to see me—not just look at me, but see me.
His lips parted just slightly, like he wasn't sure whether to smile or cry. There were tears in his eyes now, raw and unhidden, and somehow that made it harder to look at him, not easier.
"I wish I had cherished your love," he said, voice breaking. "But I didn't. I let the weight of my own bullshit crush it. Crush you. I failed you. I took you for granted and I will pay the price for that. I deserve to, and ... I.... emotionally cheated."

I closed my eyes, feeling the pain of his much-awaited admission wash over me like a wave I'd braced for — but still wasn't ready for.
"Even now, saying that feels like swallowing broken glass. I denied it over and over. I twisted myself into knots trying to justify my actions — even argued with my therapist, trying to convince him that it couldn't be that. That I couldn't be that person. Because I didn't love Laura. I didn't even come close to feeling love. There was no passion, no desire to leave you, no dreams of a life with her. So how... how could that be betrayal?
But then my therapist explained it. Slowly. Gently. And painfully. What an emotional affair actually is — not in name, but in truth. It's not about love. It's about intimacy that doesn't belong where you put it. It's the quiet messages. The sharing of parts of yourself that should be sacred to your partner. It's the validation you seek elsewhere. The comfort. The confiding. The comparing. The escape.
And suddenly, it was like I was watching a movie of myself — all the things I'd said, the texts, the secrets, the moments I kept from you — and I felt sick. Because I saw it. Not just what I did... but who I became. And yeah. I'm ashamed. Deeply ashamed. Because no matter how I spin it, part of it was an emotional affair as he told me. Maybe not all of it, but enough. Enough to cross a line. Enough to wound you. Enough to make you question everything you believed about us. About me.
"He said: "Emotional affairs aren't about love. They're about emotional displacement." And that line — it shattered me. Because I really thought I hadn't crossed that boundary. I convinced myself I was loyal because there was no physical betrayal, no romance.
But betrayal isn't always about sex or love. Sometimes, it's about where you invest your heart — the parts of you that should only belong to the person you committed to. And I gave parts of me to someone else. And I kept them from you. So no... I wasn't "safe" from that label. I thought I was. I thought I could walk the edge without falling. But I wasn't walking a line — I had already crossed it.
And now here I am. Looking at the wreckage. Looking at you, the person I vowed to honor and protect — and seeing how deeply I hurt you."
"You really did, Thomas," I said, my voice barely holding steady, the weight of everything pressing against my chest. My eyes burned, vision blurring with unshed tears. "You hurt me... deeply."