I hate her. Yes, hate. A woman I’ve never met and probably never will.
I hate that she is yours, and you are hers. I hate that I was too late and you had already moved on. I hate that I was too late, more than I actually hate her.
I feel like a moth, drawn to the flame that is you. And I hate it; I don’t want to be consumed by thoughts of you anymore. But like that moth, I can’t help it. It hurts. Thoughts of you. Thoughts of her. Thoughts of your marriage. That is my flame, my fire. Blinding me, consuming me. I can’t get away from it.
I can’t think of you without thinking of her. Your wife, now. It makes me sick. I hate it.
Maybe it’s just jealousy. She gets you, for the rest of your lives. Maybe it’s just that you found love again, after me, while I feel as if I am not capable of loving again. My mind can’t even fathom in my wildest dreams that I will find someone as good as you, let alone someone better.
I honestly don’t feel like I can love anymore, no matter how much I desperately want to. It’s not logical, I know, but it’s how I honestly feel.
She better not take you for granted, ever. She better know how lucky she is.