I love my boyfriend. I do. He’s kind, dependable, and makes me feel safe—the kind of man you settle down with. But no one ever talks about what happens when safety starts to feel suffocating.
It happened during a girls’ trip. One of those “get away and let loose” weekends. Wine by the beach. Laughter that gets louder with each glass. I wasn’t looking for trouble, but he found me—the bartender with tattoos down his arms and a smile that looked like it had secrets.
He asked where I was from. I told him I had a boyfriend. He didn’t care—and apparently, neither did I.
That night, I told my friends I was going for a walk. I ended up in his hotel room instead. His hands were rough in all the right ways. His lips tasted like tequila and temptation. I didn’t feel guilty when he kissed down my neck. I didn’t feel guilty when I let him take off everything. I didn’t feel guilty… until the next morning, when I woke up with someone else’s skin on mine.
I showered, deleted the texts, and smiled in every photo we took on that trip like nothing happened.
And yet, sometimes, when my boyfriend kisses me goodnight, I still think of that night. Of how alive I felt. Of how wrong it was… and how badly I want to do it again.
I hate myself for it. But I’d be lying if I said I regret it.
—Anonymous Girlfriend
