I Slept With My Ex While Dating Someone New

Posted September 5Sep 5

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It was raining that night.

Rain — the kind that doesn’t fall, but seeps.

Where it eventually climbs to your chest and settles, sneaking into your clothes and through your skin and into the marrow of your bones, until you wonder if that shiver is from cold or something breaking in you.

I lay back on my bed, staring blankly at the ceiling, pretending that I was okay. I have been pretending a lot lately. Pretending with my friends that I was fine.

Pretending with my boyfriend, that me sitting in silence was just because I was “tired.” And pretending with myself that I had moved on.

And then my phone lit up.

I didn’t even have to see the name to know it was him. Some calls have this weight — it feels like the universe holds its breath for a moment.

I should have let it go straight to voicemail. I told myself over and over again that I would never walk through that door again, not physically and especially not emotionally.

But then I heard his voice, rough and broken as though a man were close to weeping. It crushed me inside.

He said he was nearby. That he just needed to talk. That he had nowhere else to go.

I told him to come.

He appeared smaller somehow when I opened the door, wet from the rain, his hair pasted to his forehead and his jacket sticking to him. But his eyes signaled my undoing.

There was no rage, there was no begging — it was just… exhaustion. As if he were already carrying a tremendous weight and was on the brink of being crushed by it.

We didn’t start with words. We started with silence.

While the tea went cold and we never drank it, he sat on my bed. I wanted to ask him what was wrong; but I didn’t.

We spoke in a language that didn’t need sentences. The kind where a sigh was “I’m sorry” and his hands shook — “I don’t know how to do this anymore.”

I spent months learning to be the perfect girlfriend for someone else… smiling when I didn’t want to, hiding my messiness, swallowing my loneliness as though it were some sort of pill.

But, with him, I had no need to hide. He had seen all the broken parts of me and loved me anyway.

I felt empty that night. I wanted shelter.

His touch wasn’t hungry; it was desperate. His hands weren’t exploring for enjoyment but rather, they were searching for proof that he still belonged in the world. And mine… mine were searching for the same thing.

It wasn’t a decision. It was an instinct. Two people flailing in a storm, clutching at one another for dear life, because the alternative is drowning.

After, we just lay there. He fell asleep reaching for me in the old way, his breathing calm and slow, heartbeat peaceful.

I lay in the dark, every breath counted off as I watched the ceiling, terrified that if I moved, the whole world would know somehow, that something had happened in me that could not be fixed.

I couldn’t help but think about the guy I was going out with now. The smile on his face when I entered a room. And the way he tried — so hard! — to make us all happy. I thought about how I had accidentally cheated on him.

The guilt was sharp, immediate. But beneath that, some measure of relief.

I guess for the first time in months, I simply wasn’t acting. It wasn’t like I had been keeping it all together with smiles and small talk.

I wasn’t pretending I was better. I was just being myself — messy, foolish, and still bleeding old wounds — but someone held me anyway.

Feel free to read this and think I am an awful human. Maybe I am. Maybe I’m selfish. Maybe I’m weak. But I also know what it feels like to be so alone that you would light yourself on fire just to feel warmth.

I haven’t seen him since. I haven’t heard his voice. And maybe I won’t.

Although some nights I wake up and my hand is outstretched, searching for a hand that was never there to begin with but suddenly feels like it should be, and my heart breaks as if I am losing him all over again.

And on those nights… man, I wish it twice. Not because I want him. Not because I don’t love the man who shares my bed. But because for a night, in a small quiet room with the rain pressing against the window, I felt truly seen.

I don’t think I’ll ever feel like that again.

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This post was previously published on medium.com.