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I found my wife’s diary. I don’t think we’re gonna stay together.

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My wife and I have been together since we were teenagers. We met when I was a sophomore and she was a senior. There was something exhilarating about that age difference. I felt like such a badass “cool kid” for being able to swing a date with not only a senior, but a genuinely good-looking one at that.

I used that exhilaration to my advantage. Built up my confidence. Learned from her maturity. Hell, she’s the one who taught me how to drive.

We made it through the honeymoon phase, and by some miracle of God, we prevailed when she ended up going to college while I was left behind in high school for another two years.

That’s not to say it wasn’t difficult. I learned a lot about myself in those two years. It’s kind of insane how paralyzing separation anxiety is. My insecurity grew more and more each day.

That’s probably why I asked her to marry me immediately after purchasing our first apartment. I hate saying this just because it makes me sound so creepy, but she was mine. She was the only woman I could ever see myself with. If I lost her, it was like I was losing everything.

When she agreed, it was like all of those fears and anxieties melted away. I felt so devotedly loved, and for a while, those feelings remained.

God, there’s something wrong with me. Through all the love she displayed, all the warmth she provided, I still could not shake the feeling that she was lying. She didn’t love me. She secretly hated me. She resented me more than anything. Those are the kind of thoughts that would keep me up at night while I held her in my arms as she slept peacefully.

It wasn’t long before those thoughts started creating friction between us. I could tell how tired she was of the constant need for reassurance. The pathetic insecurity that created arguments on a daily basis. Sometimes, I wonder why she even stayed. Why she put up with it for so long when, according to this fucking diary, she was so miserable.

Maybe she just thought things would get better. That I’d grow out of this childish behavior and actually show some trust for once. But then again, maybe she liked to see me hurting. Maybe she got a sick thrill out of knowing that I was so torn up about her.

And, let’s be honest, any hope for personal growth and maturity was abandoned the moment I opened this notebook.

I just don’t understand. I don’t get how she could just write these horrible things about me without so much as a second thought.

“Paranoid.”

“Possessive.”

“Obsessive.”

And the one that hurt me the most:

“Terrifying.”

Me. The kid she taught to drive. The kid who fell head over heels for her and never looked back. And here she was. Fucking scared of me.

After all the freedom I gave her. Letting her stay out till 8 PM. Letting her see her friends every month. I even went as far as to allow her a girls night at the bar last month.

It just wasn’t enough for her. She “wanted to leave,” but she was “scared.”

I couldn’t even bring myself to read past the 30th page. I simply closed the diary, took a deep breath, and let my head fall in my hands.

All my efforts. For nothing.

While I sat in distress, my train of thought was interrupted by a quivering voice from behind me.

“Honey… why are you sitting at my vanity?”

In that moment, all I could do was laugh. Laugh at the time wasted. Laugh at the money thrown down the drain. Laugh at the idea that I convinced myself that love was real.

But more than anything, I laughed at our marriage.

She wanted to leave, fine. Love is fleeting. But we made a promise to each other.

This was till death did us part.

And if she wanted to leave so bad, so be it.

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