The "I" In Lie

I tried once telling Pete I love him. Like, not the way where it was just something to say. I wanted to tell him "I love you" the only way those words should be meant. With all of your heart.

I looked at him, smiling and touching his knee gently, and I opened my mouth, "Pete, I--"

His smile was big, but I was interrupted by her. His cell phone rang, "Hold on, babe." He said.

I looked down, moving my hand, trying not to listen to him speak to her. It was hard to watch him do so. He always said those three words I longed for him to say to me, and mean it the way he meant it to her, "...See you... I love you, too."

It always crushed my heart. I get that sick feeling in my heart, in my throat, in my stomach. I wished I had guts to say it, to just say it and make him understand. I had the feeling that Pete didn't want to hear "I love you" from his mistress, so I didn't say it.

"Sorry, what were you gonna say?"

I had shook my head, giving him a small, fake smile, "Oh, never mind... It's nothing."

Pete smiled back, that funny smile that I adored so much, and leaned over to kiss me. Yes, it lead to sex, but it always felt so much deeper to me. It always does.


1 year passed, 2 years, then 3 years. We were lovers for 3 years. And, it felt like we were a married couple. In my head we were. Only in my head.

We had a secret language of our own; the looks we gave each other. The movies we watched, the food we ate, the texts and calls we made to one another. We know each other inside and out, but yet, we never let in each other in our lives.

At least, purposely.

I know his parents name, by chance. I know his favorite color, and his favorite movies. I know his favorite food, his dislike for blondes and turn ons.

He knows my sisters' name, my mother's and my favorite drink. He knows my favorite positions, my weak spots and the place I'm most ticklish. He knows I'm a night owl and I love to read.

He says he loves my laugh. I say I love his scent, his cologne.

But, really, I love everything about him. Even the parts he thinks I don't know about. The only thing I hate is his wedding ring.

I want to have the matching one. I want to be his wife. I want to be his.

At night, I lie awake and cry. I pray and pray to the heavens, shooting stars. Even wishbones. 

At times, I even say I'd be satisfied if he'd stay with me after. After sex, he gets out of bed, goes into the bathroom and does whatever before sneaking off to my kitchen and eating whatever he's left over. He usually watches TV and falls asleep on my couch.

I hope he doesn't know that I'm still up, pretending to sleep and trying not to cry. I think he thinks I'm stronger, that I have my feelings shut off, but after 3 years it's hard not to have feelings. When it happened the first year, I was accustom to it, because we only saw each other every other month. After year 2, I cried, silently. Year 3, I pretend not to cry; for myself and for my pride.

I hate and love myself for loving him so much.